


The Age of Aggression

by ElywynHolm



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-04-06 15:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19065340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElywynHolm/pseuds/ElywynHolm
Summary: With the country in turmoil, there seems no quiet moment. Yet the war is almost over, the Imperials have the Stormcloak leader ready to be executed. The war will end, the normal man can return to his home and live his life, tend his fields and drink his ale. Yet all is not well, as that fateful day in Helgen dawns. Roars shatter the sky and shake the earth and the country is plunged into turmoil once more. A flurry of recruits come to both sides, eager for some glory against mighty beasts of old; others just want to see it over.





	1. The Age of Aggression I - Hadvar

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows the Imperial Legion questline, with some content thrown in from the Civil War Overhaul Mod - though some of it is speculation and a bit of creativity as I've never actually played the mod.  
> There are two concurrent storylines in this that will eventually join together. The main is The Age of Aggression and the other is In Search of Solace, which will start a little later on

He’d always hated executions; the horrifying spectacle had been absent from his childhood and early days as a soldier. Now, they were becoming a prominent feature in Hadvar’s life. While he was grateful for the post he’d received as one of General Tullius’ guards, he was far from relishing this perk. He knew that some people really did take joy in the spectacle, watching the people who had killed their family fall to an axe they had no means to stop from falling. Hadvar had seen enough on battlefields. He supposed he didn’t like seeing the defenceless die; however fearsome they might have been in battle; it was a matter of fact that a man with his hands tied could do very little to prevent his own death.  
  
Why here? Why Helgen? Hadvar had always liked Helgen, once upon a time he’d been sweet on a girl and had competed for her with an old friend. He had lost out in the end but perhaps it had been for the best – he would never know, and he was a soldier now, those days were behind him. The quiet little town now reminded him far too much of home, though there were more walls and a keep to assure the townspeople of their safety, the keep leading to places Hadvar preferred not to think of. Instead, he looked down at the list to see which names he would be attempting to match to faces today. Yet at the sight of the scrawls across the page his fingers tightened on the board he held and the quill in his hands.  
  
“Easy,” the Captain grumbled, a stout woman that Hadvar did not know nor like, her eyes on the cart rather than him, “remember, they are traitors. They are not your old friends, not anymore.” Hadvar could only look at her back before his eyes drifted to General Tullius ad the Thalmor Elf. He thought of the amulet, hidden beneath his armour. If they knew, Hadvar was sure they would send him to the block alongside the Stormcloaks who would soon line up before him. So, he thought of Riverwood, took a breath and turned his face to stone. It would all be over soon.  
  
Hadvar stood straight, watching as each prisoner jumped from the carts. He didn’t know most of the men, so at least he wouldn’t suffer too much – sleep was hard enough to come by. Still, he did not look up from the list often; like he knew the amulet would send him to the block, Hadvar knew that all too soon a familiar face would appear. Then he’d remember everything he’d wished to have forgotten from the first days he could remember to the when the world came crashing down on him. As one may look down with the last of the prisoners off the carts, Hadvar knew he must look up.  
A surge of power crashed through the air as Hadvar lifted his head, reading out the first name.  
  
“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”  
  
The man bound at the wrists and gagged to save them all from Sovngarde stepped forward in his fine furs and clothes. A people’s man, truly. Hadvar was all too aware that had his war truly been about Skyrim he would have fallen under Ulfric’s banner. Yet, the drunken ramblings of Stormcloak men had never been something the Legionnaire had managed to wrap his head around. Cynicism such as this had never suited him anyway. Through his thinking, lost in awe, he had ignored the comment made by an old friend. Yet, he could stall no longer.  
  
“Ralof of Riverwood,” This time he maintained eye contact with the man who answered to the name Ralof. So familiar, yet so distant. He could remember the day as if it were yesterday. Running. Waving his Imperial contract in the air – hoping his friend would meet him doing the same. Yet, all he had found was a mournful but proud sister. Hadvar’s friend had run all the way to Windhelm and now Ralof could only muster to walk by the man he once called a friend as he made his way to the block.  
  
No matter.  
  
The third name he called was Lokir of Rorikstead. A filthy man who had perhaps once seen better days, though Hadvar had his doubts, stepped forward. He bellowed his innocence and when it wasn’t granted, he ran. Hadvar did not move, finding comfort in the cobbled road his feet stood on. He listened to the Captain call for the man to halt and the whistle of an arrow. Already exhaustion was threatening to take him. Hadvar wanted nothing more than to return home.  
There was one more person on the list, he could see them before him but had yet to look at them. He would read their name, take his position and then see something else before him, pretend he was elsewhere. The thief dead, Hadvar turned his eyes to the list once more. There was no name.  
  
“You, step forward, “he snapped, trying to retain some authority in his voice. Before him was a slip of a girl, Breton no doubt judging by the slightly pointed ears. She stared right back at him and she wasn’t shaking but he could see the fear, almost smell it in the air. He knew better; she wasn’t supposed to be here. “Who are you?”  
  
“Martolode,” the woman answered, she was a woman after all, however young she might be. Hadvar glanced at the Captain who seemed unaware of the goings-on. Hadvar shook his head,  
“You come from Daggerfall, Breton? Fleeing some court intrigue?” It was said for only himself but still, the Captain was unimpressed, “what do we do? She’s not on the list.”  
  
“Forget the list, she goes to the block,” the Captain declared, sneering her answer. Hadvar bit his tongue before responding.  
  
“By your orders Captain.” He then turned to the Breton; this girl named Martolode. While she had been strong enough to give her name, her slender shoulders now shook with fear. Perhaps she was fleeing some court intrigue, some Princess of one of the royal houses and here she was, a prisoner in a foreign land going to the block for seeking some safety. “We’ll make sure your body is returned to High Rock. I’m sorry.” He’d said words like that before but never before had he meant them, not until now. So, the girl followed the Captain and stood in line to wait for the axe. Hadvar stood for a moment, still as stone. There was something wrong.  
  
Something roared off in the distance. It was no normal roar, shaking Hadvar to his very bones as it seemed to echo off the mountains around them. It was barely acknowledged, and the last rites were given in ignorance. The first man stepped forward. Judging by the way he looked and the tone of his voice as he demanded they get on with his death, the man was from Solitude. A rare place to find rebels hailing from. For a moment, Hadvar wondered who the man was and then it no longer mattered. The axe fell and Hadvar couldn’t stop himself from flinching as blood splattered his legs.  
  
“Next, the Breton!”  
  
Another almighty roar sounded and the gods themselves seemed to have raised their voices in protest. The roar seemed to shatter the sky above them. Something was wrong, whether it was to do with the woman who made her way to the block, the Captain eager to push her down, or something else Hadvar did not know. Whatever was coming was coming for them and he didn’t know if he’d survive to tell the tale


	2. The Age of Aggression II - Martolode

The girl couldn’t remember how she had gotten here or where she had come from. She had not been fleeing anything, as the soldier had suggested. Skyrim was her home, even when her parents were not the country’s natives – she knew that much. There had been no border crossings as Ralof had presented to her predicament. One moment she had been working on the farm and the next she was being trundled along in a cart, the only woman on a cart of men. Perhaps she should have revelled in the fact she had sat beside the true High King but she knew all too well that he looked upon her with disdain and that he was no High King at all.

Now, she stood over the body of a dead man, some blood still draining from his open neck as his head lay in the basket. Martolode could not help herself, looking straight into the eyes of the man who had tried so poorly to keep her from her death. She wanted him to feel the guilt; she wanted him to feel her death. The roar sounded and while he looked towards the mountains, her eyes remained on him. They were all uneasy, something told Martolode she would not be alive long enough to find out where the roar had come from.

The Captain’s hand pressed into her back and her knees gave out, any fight she had in her was gone as her knees hit the ground and the foot placed on her back pressed her neck down against the block. To save her nose for anyone who might remark on the pretty head, she turned her head towards the executioner. The Keep loomed above him and he began to lift the axe, Martolode began to count. By the time she counted to ten, she reckoned, she would be dead.

A great shadow loomed above them, a third roar sounding, shaking the ground as the shadow landed on top of the Keep. The axeman stumbled before he could bring the blade down on Martolode’s neck. The world shattered as the shadow emitted something beyond reality, the axeman lay dead as the Imperial soldiers cried out in horror. Martolode herself was thrown across the ground, landing at someone’s feet.

Strong arms grabbed her and pulled her to her feet, a voice shouted at her, but the roar of the shadow had knocked the senses from Martolode and she had to be dragged by the arm into the keep, pushed to the ground as chaos erupted outside. The people around her were little more than fuzzy masses of brown and blue, it was only as they began to focus that she realised she was surrounded by Stormcloaks and the one who had dragged her into the room was Ralof, the man sat across from her who had kept a diligent eye on Martolode, lest she fell from the cart.

Martolode pushed herself up from the ground and pulled herself back, leaning on the wall. Still dazed, a beating of a drum sounded outside and the ground shook once more. Martolode wanted to stand but found no strength in her legs. Ralof knelt beside her but she shied away from him as he tried to bring a waterskin to her lips. “Drink it, you need it and you can’t lift your arms yet. I can’t undo that knot and I don’t think you’re strong enough to break it,” Ralof sighed his answer, shaking his head, pushing the waterskin back at Martolode. Hesitantly, she drank. Ralof looked back at a man, who by following his gaze, Martolode discovered was Ulfric Stormcloak.

“Is it real? Could the legends really be true?” Ralof asked, pulling the waterskin away from Martolode, lest he accidentally drown the girl. Ulfric shook his head, a lack of faith on his face in the man who asked him the question.

“Legends don’t burn down villages.”

“It’s awfully convenient, don’t you think?” A woman’s voice sounded from behind a helm that covered her face, “one of those monsters turns up just as they’re about to end our cause for good.” Silence among the rebel soldiers held for a moment, a realisation perhaps coming to them that they had been moments away from almost complete destruction. Causes never lasted long without a leader, Martolode could have told them that with ease.

The ground rumbled again and finally, the silence was cut by Ulfric’s voice declaring that they needed to move and to move now. All of a sudden, Ralof pulled Martolode up onto her feet again and pushed her towards the stairs,

“Go, up the stairs, we need to go,” was barked behind her, Martolode trying not to lose her balance as the hands pushed her up the steps. With every roar of fury, the building shook and Martolode lost her footing. It wouldn’t be far, every time she fell she was pulled up again and pushed on. Bile clambered its way up to her throat, somehow she could only think of the man who had died on the Imperial’s orders. He would be given no chance to escape but maybe it didn’t matter, maybe they’d die trying and he’d been spared a fate worse than death.

“If we could just move some of these rocks,” a voice sounded a few steps up. The soldier had no time to move the rocks as the tower shuck and the entire side crumbled as the shadow beat its head against the tower. The man who had spoken was knocked to the floor and Martolode herself was almost thrown from the staircase, only saved by Ralof’s outstretched hand that caught her arm and pulled her into the wall. Wild heat drowned them and the smell of burning flesh crept into the air, left behind by beating wings.

Deemed safe, Ralof pushed Martolode up the stairs, looking out onto the burning town below through the hole the shadow had left.

“Jump through that hole in the roof, we’ll follow later,” Ralof commanded. Martolode looked at him as if he had lost his mind. In response, Ralof grabbed her shoulders and turned her towards the hole in the tower, pulling her back, “run, jump and we’ll meet again. Now go before that thing comes back!” Martolode was given a shove and little choice but to carry on and throw herself over the edge, onto the first floor of the inn.

She tried to roll into the fall but landed on her shoulder and cried out. It was only the roar of the shadow, accompanied by an expulsion of flames not too far away that made her stand up, dragging herself up as quickly as she could, hands still bound. Another fall was waiting at the end but this was more calculated and Martolode even managed to keep her feet, albeit almost toppling back. Before her, was an old man, crouching down to hide from the shadow and its flames. Martolode crept forward, joining the old man, spotting the soldier whose eyes she had looked into as she’d been pushed down onto the block. He did not see her, instead focused on the small boy too afraid to move, staring up at the great beast of the sky as its wings flapped rhythmically above their heads. It had seen them.

“Haming, you need to get away from there, now!” The soldier shouted at the boy. The beast had turned, seeing its easy prey, and had begun to descend. The boy still did not move. The soldier, not knowing what else to do, reached forward and grabbed the boys arm, pulling him back as the beast landed, practically throwing the child to the old man as they all cowered from the flames being spat at them.

“Still alive prisoner, stay close to me if you want to stay that way,” the Soldier called behind him before turning the old man, “Gunnor, take care of the boy, I need to find General Tullius and join the defence.” Before the old man could answer, the Soldier was already running and Martolode saw no other option but to follow him, praying to the Divines that the boy might be safe. She couldn’t see many surviving this.

They ran over bodies and threw themselves against walls as the shadow breathed its fire, leaving the town nothing more than a smouldering ruin. As they ran there was a call of cowardice but it went on ignored, this soldier knew where he was going and he would not stop until he was there. Determination, even in the face of total adversary in the form of a fire breathing monster set on massacring a town – while incredibly stupid – was admirable.

“Ralof!” The soldier bellowed, met once again by the blond Nord man, Martolode all to instinctively – on the power of something buried within her – took cover behind the soldier. Ralof had already seen her and there was a great fury on his face, she could only pray it wasn’t directed at her. He stood with sword in hand, for all it was worth Ralof was a familiar face amongst strangers and for a moment Martolode considered abandoning the soldier to his fate and joining Ralof. Yet, a hand outstretched to her, not to take but to keep her safe, made her stay behind the soldier’s cover.

“You won’t capture us this time,” Ralof shouted back, making his move towards the keep door, “we’re getting out of here!”

“You damn traitor, out of my way,” with that the soldier ran towards the opposing keep door and without any mercy cut down the soldier who followed Ralof, clearing a path for Martolode to follow. As she ran for cover, the great shadow soaring over them she could feel eyes on her back and guilt trickled down her neck as the keep door was thrown open and she was ushered inside, burnt, bruised and bleeding but alive and in the company of the soldier.


	3. The Age of Aggression III - Hadvar

“Get any armour and weapons you can,” Hadvar instructed, cutting the bindings on the girl’s wrists, “check that chest over there.” The woman did exactly as she was asked, though as she began to rout around in the drawers and cupboards in the room Hadvar wondered if he had accidentally freed a Thief. Time would tell, and perhaps when that time passed it wouldn’t matter at all. The most important thing was getting out of Helgen at the very least alive, both of them would certainly be scathed.

The armour she’d found didn’t really fit her and the sword she’d picked up seemed too heavy for her hands. Hadvar looked her over, wishing he wasn’t so reliant on his own bow – otherwise he would have given it to her for now. Perhaps they’d find something along the way she could use that was better suited to her hands.

“Keep listening, there could be worse than Stormcloaks down here.”

“Before we go any further,” the voice stopped Hadvar in his tracks as he turned towards the door. The absence of the rumbles from outside had gone unnoticed until then and he found himself shifting slightly from foot to foot. The girl’s voice was soft, perhaps he was no longer used to such sounds – being part of the legion meant he was all too familiar with gruff and groggy voices hoping they’d be alive to tell their tales. The soft voice had but a simple request, “tell me your name.”

“Hadvar,” he gave her a simple answer to a simple request, as was expected of a soldier, “Martolode?” The girl named Martolode nodded and Hadvar was allowed to continue, taking the key Martolode had found in her investigations of the room to open the door. He wondered to himself, what her name might mean. He didn’t know a word of the Breton language so deciphering her name was an impossible task, leaving him to wonder.

While he wondered, he listened. Voices, he could hear voices. He held up a hand, signalling for Martolode to stop; which she did, one ear turned towards the corridor to listen with him. They were talking about Ulfric and in praising tones. Stormcloaks. Hadvar counted the voices, two – a man and a woman but who knew how many lurked, just listening to them. Desperate times called for desperate measures and Hadvar was determined, however many soldiers there were in the room awaiting them, he would reach the other side alive. Though he suggested they might be reasoned with, the soldier had little hope – even with the great beast tearing the town asunder above their heads roared once more.

“Now we just want to “Hadvar began but swords were turned on him before he could finish his sentence. He could only be glad there had been as many soldiers as there were voices as they charged at him. With no time to draw his bow, he pulled the sword from its sheath and a metallic ringing sounded as one sword pushed back against another. No shield meant he was uncovered on his left, but his mind was on forcing back the assailant before him, not the one to the side.

“Animalis” a bark sounded, and a ghostly wolf bounded across the room, its weightless body crashing into the woman who was only seconds away from slicing Hadvar’s stomach open. The wolf’s jaws clamped down on her throat, ripping out her jugular and dripping blood onto the floor. It dropped the pile of flesh and growled, distracting the man who had been occupying Hadvar. With the lapse, Hadvar pushed the man back and he stumbled. Leaving his right side exposed, Hadvar made his mark and left the man dead. The wolf trotted across the room and stood by the side of its master, Martolode.

“I should have known you’d be good at magic; you are a Breton after all,” Hadvar commented, his chest heaving. It was always like this and he knew he’d dream about this for the months to come, all he could do was dismiss it until he was safe. Then it could haunt him. Martolode gave him a smile and rested her hand on the wolf’s head, scratching its ears.

“The only thing that differs Breton’s from their Men and Mer ancestors is that the wolves that walk by their sides are like this,” Martolode’s hand dropped and moved through the wolf, which whimpered and made her quick to recoil her hand, “a spirit of long-dead beasts, bound to serve us for eternity.” With the wolf vanished and a purple whirlpool spun in the Breton’s hand, waiting to be called upon again.

They continued through the keep, aware of the voices below and the sounds of some kind of combat, between who or what neither could tell. Hadvar was aware of Martolode’s eyes, always following him, always watching for him. Waiting for the signal to stop and to listen. It was never given, instead, Hadvar all but charged into the next room – the number of voices he’d heard he considered a death sentence, and it was no Nord way to die creeping away with a sword in your back.

To his surprise, they entered a torture room, manned by an Imperial Torturer and his assistant, who were currently battling with two Stormcloaks. To think they’d turn on an old man, then again, perhaps they hadn’t had to look too far to understand why. Given enough room this time, Hadvar retrieved his bow and readied it, letting the arrow go assured that it would whistle past the old man and went into the eye of the Stormcloak soldier. A cry of a name came, followed by the gargle of blood as the assistant made quick work of the man who had turned on him.

“You happened along just in time. These boys seemed a bit upset at how I’ve been entertaining their comrades.” Hadvar was aware of Martolode stood behind him as the torturer spoke, a grin on his face; Hadvar reached back a hand to Martolode and guarded her from him. She may have just commanded a wolf to rip out the throat of an enemy soldier, but he could far from blame her for being somewhat unnerved by the man. Even he was, Hadvar often hoped for the days when they didn’t need rooms like this and people like that were put in their place.

“Don’t you even know what’s going on?” A bewildered Hadvar asked, the sounds from above were fainter here, yet still, they should have known. “A dragon is attacking Helgen!” The torturer was unamused.

“A dragon?” he scoffed, “please. Don’t make up nonsense.” He dismissed Hadvar’s warning and went back to the body that lay in the middle of the room. Martolode moved closer to Hadvar and further behind him, peering over his shoulder. Divines bless her, the poor woman was terrified. The torturer halted, raising a hand to hold his chin, “though, come to think of it, I did here some odd noises coming from over there.” Over there, however, was nowhere and he was making a mockery of the soldier.

“Come with us.” Hadvar had turned to insisting, his hand was now fully clasped around Martolode’s forearm, “we need to get out of here.” The Torturer simply laughed again and looked at Hadvar with eyes that knew far too much and had seen too much to be considered man anymore. Hadvar squeezed gently.

“You have no authority, over me, boy.” With that, Hadvar lost his temper and snapped at the old man but it didn’t work. Frustrated as his fellow soldier, the man’s assistant volunteered to leave him there and continue on with Hadvar and Martolode. Upon Hadvar’s instruction to take whatever they needed; the Torturer grumbled but did not protest. He knew that Hadvar would just turn it on him, decrees of the Empire overturned any personal feeling or attachment, especially when a beast was spitting fire over your head and might crumble the ground onto them at any given moment.

“Take these, they might be useful” Hadvar whispered, slipping some lockpicks into Martolode’s hands, “go and unlock that cage there. Don’t look at me like that, don’t tell me you’ve never picked a lock before.” Martolode’s cheeks coloured a little and she went to work on the lock immediately. It took her a few attempts and the first pick Hadvar gave her snapped in two before she’d truly tried. Still, the cage door swung open and he watched on as Martolode held her breath, retrieving what she could from the cage as the torturer announced the man had been dead for weeks. Hadvar thought he was lying, the body a little too fresh but he didn’t want to enquire.

She took what she needed and with that, they left the torturer to his fate. Hadvar wasn’t sure if he was feeling any real sympathy – there was something there, but it was about as human as the torturer’s smile. The three carried on down into a cave and Hadvar found himself praying to each of the divines, only just stopping himself from reaching for the amulet beneath his clothes. Even here, in the darkness of the cave, he could not put himself at risk. Blocks and prison cells were always waiting.

Hurried on, there was no listening to be done and the three spilt into a room filled with Stormcloaks. Yet, something else had taken over Hadvar, he drew his sword and cut down the one who came towards them with ease. Martolode, seemingly ever more impressive, had spotted the oil on the floor and flames had shot from her hand, igniting the room and filling it with screams from outside, from the beast’s own flames. There was not a woman before him but a dragon, who had called upon the forest to fight with her as the wolf leapt from her hand, growling as it pounced upon an unfortunate soul that came too close.

Slashes of swords and battering of shields commenced until finally, all 10 Stormcloaks lay dead – along with the torturer’s assistant – Hadvar and Martolode stood, panting and flames burning along the stone as the wolf retreated to Martolode’s side once more, disappearing. If this was where life would take them, then so be it. Come what may, they would live.

On through the cave they continued, Hadvar mumbling a throwaway prayer to Arkay as they carried on – Sovngarde awaited those who lay dead in the room, that as much was a comfort. It couldn’t be much further now, this cave had to end somewhere and the room they’d just left seemed to be the main chamber and it must have been used for something, as a lever allowed them to carry on through the twists and turns.

The beast roared and both crouched, waiting for the rocks to crumble on top of them and end their valiant attempt at escape. Rocks did tumble but only over the gate they had come through, sealing off any return to Helgen. There was no turning back now.

The continued on, through the rushing stream and Hadvar chanced a look above his head to sun light poking through gaps between rocks. Though glad to see sunlight, Hadvar was sure to keep the both of them at a fast pace – he wasn’t so keen on that kind of death. He doubted there would be many, if any, Stormcloaks that they’d face before they reached the surface.

A clicking sound came from the cavern not too far away and Hadvar froze, his shoulders tensing and freezing where they were. Martolode stopped behind him, did as she was told and listening. Click. Click. Click. Hadvar tried to relax his shoulders but it far from worked, instead leaving him with a half-stuck torso while his legs moved along, sword gripped in his hands.

Two of the great spiders scuttled forward, hearing the two move along the cavern, beady eyes not yet seeing them. Martolode went ahead this time, unlike Hadvar she was loose and easily plunged a sword into one’s head before doing the same to the other before it could spit poison at her. There was no wolf needed this time as she backed away from the one above her head and made short work of it, a snarl on her face.

“Impressive,” Hadvar commented, his sword hanging limply by his side, watching the woman as she drained the spider’s venom into bottles that had once contained healing potions.

“We have these in High Rock too,” Martolode grumbled, “the few times I’ve been back they’ve always found a way to get into the house. They’re bigger too.”

“You come from High Rock?” Hadvar asked, “how on earth did you end up in Skyrim?” Martolode sighed, pressing down on one of the spider’s fangs to get the last of the venom out, making Hadvar gag and have to look away.

“I was born here, well, not here, up near the border,” Martolode explained, satisfied with what she’d gotten from the spiders, “but my parents and brothers went back to High Rock when the High King was killed, I was supposed to be joining them but it appears a Dragon is going to try and eat me first. I don’t want to leave anyway; High Rock doesn’t suit me.” Unwilling to say anymore, Martolode then suggested that they carry on, the end of this ordeal couldn’t be too far away, with all the light spilling down on their heads.

The next room in the cave was sparse, no spiders or anything at all it seemed. Something had been down here, there was a cart with wine and mead and some gold, Hadvar wondered what had happened to that poor unfortunate soul. Even with the lack of life, the two still crept along – it would be unwise to underestimate what hid in the shadows. Then, he saw it.

A great mass of fur lay, slumbering across a small ridge. A bear.

“You can take these and surprise it if you wish,” Hadvar mumbled, “or we can sneak past, I don’t really want a bear on my hands after all of that.”

“Keep moving, we might have spiders in High Rock, but we don’t deal with bears unless we have to,” Martolode hissed back. Somewhat relieved by her answer, Hadvar carried on, moving slowly along the wall, watching the bear just in case they didn’t have a choice as to whether they dealt with it or not. The only comfort he found was the stream of light the bear must have been basking in before it fell asleep. They were almost free. They were almost safe.

Rounding a corner, there it was, the passage up to daylight and to the world above. Both were quick to make their way up and broke out into the sunlight with cries of relief. However, the relief was cut short as Hadvar pulled them both down behind a rock, the great black Dragon soaring overhead to parts unknown. They could still smell the burning, all the way from here, but the beast was done. For the time being.


	4. The Age of Aggression IV - Sigrid

“Sigrid!” The same old voice called her from her own work to his own. Perhaps she should have known that this is what life would be like for her, all those years ago when she’d run off to Riften with the Blacksmith’s son, but she hadn’t cared then. As she made her way around the side of the house, she didn’t care now either.

“What is it, husband?” She asked, smiling at Alvor but not extending her smile to her daughter, Dorthe, who was diligently watching what her father was doing. Sigrid, if she remembered correctly, had told the girl to go and fetch some wood from Hod and Gerdur. Alvor stood from his stoop over the forge and swept a hand across his brow but had no time to answer his wife, attention turned to the road ahead.

“By the gods,” he muttered, dropping the hammer in his hand and running down onto the street, “Hadvar?” Low and behold, there was Hadvar, Alvor’s nephew who had been somewhat unceremoniously dumped on them as newlyweds almost thirty years before. Still, he’d grown and looked rather smart in his uniform and this time was no different. Aside from all the burns and the companion he’d acquired.

“What happened to you?” Alvor asked, holding the boy by his shoulders and turning his this way and that, inspecting the burns and scratch marks on his face and neck. Sigrid stayed back, watching from the steps. So those noises hadn’t been nothing, something had happened not too far away – Helgen by her guesses – while Hadvar had been stationed there. Well, at least now there would be answers and peoples’ minds could be laid to rest, she’d already had enough of the mad old woman’s ramblings about a Dragon.

She then turned her attention to the follower Hadvar had found himself on his road home. Sigrid’s nose twitched slightly as she looked down on the Breton woman who had many injuries the same as Hadvar, along with a slit across her cheek that once had bled freely and was now beginning to scab over. How Hadvar had acquired such a grubby girl and had the guile to then bring her home, Sigrid would never know, and she was looking forward to his excuse.

“Come on, both of you inside, you need food and drink, then you can tell us your story,” Sigrid sighed, going to her door and holding it open. Alvor went in with a smile, Hadvar was warned of his actions and the Breton woman gave little more than a curt nod.

“You as well, come on,” Sigrid snapped, her daughter traipsing up to the door and going inside the house before Sigrid slammed the door.

“Sit, sit,” Alvor insisted, holding his hand, indicating the seat beside Hadvar, to the woman who had remained standing, “you’re tired and weary, sit down.” Hesitantly, the woman did so and she hid her face when she let out a sigh of relief.  Alvor gave her smile and nodded to Sigrid as she set down quickly assembled plates of bread, meat and cheese in front of them. The woman – or rather girl – thanked her as she did so and even earned a smile from the woman.

“So, what happened?” Alvor asked, watching as Hadvar tore into the bread while the Breton woman seemed a little more apprehensive, though she didn’t need much persuading to eat.

“A Dragon attacked Helgen,” Hadvar answered through a mouth full of bread. Sigrid’s brow furrowed but Dorthe was quicker.

“A dragon?” She asked excitedly, bouncing up at her cousin with unbridled force and almost knocking him from the chair in which he sat, “like a real, fire breathing dragon?” Hadvar nodded and Dorthe only became more giddy, far from frightened by the prospect she seemed excited. Sigrid could see the small smile on the Breton’s face as Dorthe looked from her to Hadvar, looking at the burn marks, “did the dragon do that to you?” Drothe pointed to the cut on the woman’s cheek.

“No, a soldier did that but the dragon did all of these,” the woman smiled and pointed to the burns on her arm. She looked up at Alvor and Sigrid, “I’m sorry, I’ve neglected to introduce myself. I’m Martolode.”

“Martolode…” Alvor prompted.

“Just, Martolode,” the Breton smiled, “we, my family, don’t have a surname, not important enough.”

“Your Breton warring families will never fail to confuse me,” Sigrid commented, shaking her head, “now Dorthe, go and get the wood from Gerdur and ask her if she has any dresses that she could lend us. Failing that, go to Lucan and promise him payment,” she paused, looking the Breton up and down, “can’t have you wandering around in armour. In fact, Dorthe, take Martolode with you.”  

“Aunt, I don’t – “ Hadvar started.

“It’s fine,” Martolode interjected, standing up from the table and smiling at the girl who took her hand and led her out.

Hadvar turned back to his aunt and uncle.

“So, what business do have bringing some common whore like that home with you? All this talk of a Dragon, pfft,” Sigrid shook her head at her nephew and stood, waiting for a reply, hands on hips. Alvor said nothing, watching them both. Hadvar had tensed, dropping the bread in his hand on the plate again.

“She’s no common whore, that’s what you think of all women who set foot in town, never mind inside your house,” Hadvar had to fight everything within him not to snap at his Aunt, “and there was a Dragon, look at the state of me, of her. I’ve seen men brunt alive, torn apart by talons and almost sent an innocent person to the block. There was a Dragon and Helgen is gone.”

At that, Sigrid stood up straight and with a shake of the head, accepted her nephew’s tale. Hadvar may have been hot-headed enough to join the legion and fight their wars, but he never told a lie unless commanded to.

“She was the innocent person?” Alvor asked. Hadvar nodded. Alvor got up from the table and returned with some wine, tipping it into a mug for Hadvar and pushing it to him, “drink up.” Sigrid let her shoulders drop, moving across the room and placing an arm around Hadvar’s shoulders and resting her head on top of his. A whispered sorry as he drank the wine would have to do for now.

The door swung open and a bouncing Dorthe bounded in, Martolode following her in a yellow dress, carrying some firewood and holding a small bag of coins between her teeth. Sigrid was on the brink of berating her daughter but too quickly Dorthe had put all of her attention on Hadvar.

“Hadvar, she can heal your burns!” Dorthe announced, “I watched her! Frodnar fell over and scraped his knees and she healed it, just like that!”

“She has a name, Dorthe,” Hadvar sighed, “and burns from a dragon aren’t like knee scrapes.”  

“Well, I could, but they might scar,” Martolode mumbled, having placed the firewood down and was now standing, looking the other way, holding her arms, “I would have done them earlier but…”

“Who knew what was around the corner,” Hadvar finished for her, “it’s alright, you don’t need to do them. Burns are burns, scars are scars, the only difference there will be is time.” Dorthe began to sulk and sank down beside her cousin, sitting on his feet and grumbling to herself. Sigrid, softer and wishing to right the way she had spoken to Martolode took a step forward.

“Would you?” She asked Martolode, “for Dorthe to see?” Martolode looked towards her with surprise but then turned her attention to Hadvar. He sighed and set his wine down, holding out his arm to Martolode as a dazed Dorthe looked up. Martolode obliged, moving across the room as small gold filters of light shone between her fingers. With one hand, from which no light spilt, she held onto his hand to keep him steady, but also for him to grab. The other rested on the burn and encased it in a golden hue, the burn shrinking until the skin that could not heal began to whiten. Sigrid watched as Dorthe tipped her head back to watch as Hadvar squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the Breton’s hand as tightly as he could. Then, it was over.  

“Stendarr’s mercy, no one ever mentions it hurting like that, no wonder I hear the soldiers scream,” Hadvar hissed, more to himself than anyone else in the room, “leave the others to heal themselves, I beg you.” Despite his plea, there was a smile on his face and it was taken as a jest as Dorthe jumped to her feet and Martolode drew away, her hands shaking from the energy it had taken out of her. Alvor was sharing the same bewilderment and excitement as his daughter while Sigrid merely looked on, the corners of her mouth barely upturned.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Dorthe asked, Martolode had been forced to sit down by Magicka that had drained from her, “why do you know how to do that?”

“I have brothers, brothers get themselves hurt all the time,” Martolode smiled, “they were too silly to learn to do it themselves and they’d always come running to me.”

“How many brothers do you have? Are you the oldest?” Dorthe continued to shower Martolode with questions, perhaps excited by the other woman and this power she seemed to possess that Dorthe had never once seen. Nords were scared of magic and didn’t take to it kindly, clearly, the girl had not been exposed to such thought. Not yet anyway.

“I have five brothers,” Martolode answered, “I’m the oldest.”

“Mara must have looked down on your mother kindly,” Sigrid remarked, “one was enough for me. Though, perhaps I was afraid of more boys.” Hadvar opened his mouth in protest but said nothing, a sour look on his face.

“My mother had a shrine to Mara in her room so I’d hope she did,” Martolode remarked, a smile on her face, “fierce woman, my mother – more Nord blood than she cared to admit I imagine.”  

“Where is your mother, Martolode?” Sigrid asked, her voice gentle, afraid that the girl’s mother had lost her blessing from Mara and left the girl without a guide.

“High Rock, with my father and my brothers,” Martolode smiled, her eyes looking nowhere in particular, “where, I don’t know, but they’re safe. I know that much.”

The silence was heavy in the room as Martolode played with a string that threaded the front of her dress together. Hadvar was anxiously touching the newly formed scar as Alvor looked between everyone, not sure what to do. A guilty Sigrid had folded her arms across her chest, tapping her fingers on her arms, watching the Breton. Alvor broke the silence.

“I don’t mean to hurry you on,” Alvor started, “but you’ll see that there isn’t much here to protect us, no wall, just Gerdur’s mill bridge that won’t be much good. You survived Helgen and have no obligation to the legion like my nephew. So I ask you, take word to the Jarl of Whiterun and ask him to send soldiers to protect us.”

“I will gladly do so,” Martolode replied, “I can only hope that they’d believe me, I fear those who might pry on the suffering of those who did survive.”

“Yours is for a just reason,” Sigrid interjected, “you’re not asking for money or position.”

“I can give you some armour and fix up the sword you brought with you,” Alvor added, “the roads are dangerous places these days.”


	5. The Age of Aggression V - Farkas

Farkas smiled to himself as he settled down on the grass outside Jorrvaskr, one knee over the others, lying just where the sun hit. Eyes close and out of his armour, he could have fallen into a slumber there and then. Of course, as always, it would evade him, but the moment of peace was enough for now and he could live without the sleep, what he got was enough. Listening to his brother trying, in vain, to teach something to the new girl – Ria – while Torvar shouted encouragement to her was a pleasant enough sound on this bright sunny day of Last Seed.

They’d heard about Helgen. Everyone had heard about Helgen. There was already money in their coffers from the Jarl, requesting that they go and investigate but Kodlak, on request, had been allowed to determine when he sent them. While curiosity had nagged at Farkas, he couldn’t but remain anxious at their ability to face a dragon. They weren’t The Blades, after all, and they had hardly lived up to much in recent years. He’d heard whisperings of the death toll and pushed it to the back of his mind. He was out here to enjoy the sun, not mourn the dead.

“Ice Brain!” A voice snapped, harsh as any winter snow, “why are you lounging? There’s a giant headed for that blasted farm.” Farkas cracked one eye open to see Aela standing over him, scowling. He’d learnt not to laugh at her scowl with its wrinkled nose and not to argue with her, so, he stood – albeit with a grumble. Disappearing to find his armour and sword, wishing he could take his time. His shoulders slumped and he lounged for his bask in the sun as he felt the Huntress’ eyes on his back, daring him to turn around.

He returned to a rather amusing scene. Aela stood with her hands on her hips, glowering at his brother while the new girl hid behind Torvar.

“It can be her trial.”

“She’s not ready for that! I said I’d go myself.”

“She’s been here long enough, Vilkas, it’s only a giant,” Aela rolled her eyes as Vilkas scoffed. Farkas looked the other way, he might know not to laugh at Aela but finding his brother’s outrage a source of amusement would never leave him.

“Only a giant? Are you mad woman?” This question was barked across the courtyard and clearly, the argument had gone too far. Farkas heard the door open behind him, moving aside out of instinct as Kodlak and Skjor appeared. Aela was quick to back down when they appeared but Vilkas remained where he was, his pale skin rouged with fury.

“What is this racket?” Kodlak asked, looking between a defiant Vilkas and guilty Aela, “there is a giant attacking and you are not gone? Ria, stop hiding behind Torvar and go with Aela and Farkas, they’ll vouch for you when you return, I’m sure.”

“Bu-” Vilkas attempted to protest but even he fell silent at the rise of Kodlak’s hand.

The three set off from Jorrvaskr promptly, Aela and Farkas racing one another down the steps as they always did while Ria tried desperately to keep up with them. They flew around the back of houses, avoiding the marketplace, and almost crashed into the gates, Ria skidding to a stop behind them. She shouted something to them, but it fell on death ears as the gates were wrenched open and they were allowed free reign into the world.

Ria had begun to find her pace and now ran alongside Aela and Farkas as the way was cleared by guards and stable boys – all had heard the thundering of the giant’s steps and stood, watching and waiting for it to appear.

“So how do you kill a giant?” Ria asked. Aela laughed, red hair blowing in the wind and a wild look in her eyes. She had no answer to give so Farkas was left to answer.

“Cut off its foot,” he called back, the great beast now in view, trying to bring its hammer down on a cow that was frantically running in circles to avoid certain death, “I think alchemist use their toes for something.” He turned his head to see a white-faced Ria and almost joined Aela in her laughter. He liked telling new recruits that, and it did hold some truth, it was a good place to hit considering the size of giants compared to them.

“I’ll fire at it, Ria, Farkas you deal with the heels. Remember, don’t get hit,” Aela called, now close enough she readied her bow and begun to fire at the Giant. Farkas kept one eye on Ria as she went to the right foot and he took the left, she seemed to be in an element of her own and swung her sword – just as Vilkas had taught her – at the back of the giant’s heel. It roared and brought its club down, barely missing Ria, to which she responded with a more powerful strike, cutting through the skin and drenching her in giant’s blood. Farkas followed her lead and the giant brought his club down back and forth between the two before an arrow struck it in the eye.

Farkas looked up to congratulate Aela as the giant crumpled beside him but looked beyond her to see a young woman with a bow in her hand, a little windswept and poorly armoured but a warrior of some sort nevertheless.

“She took my shot!” Aela yelled, mouth agape as she stared at the woman, “hey! You! Wait!”

“I really need to go,” the woman called back, looking as if she had perhaps upset a god rather than a woman with a bow. Then again, both were equally as dangerous. Still, the three persisted and approached her and she stayed where she was. Farkas took those moments to get a proper look at her. Dark hair surrounded a pale face, eyes lined with green war paint that flared out some. It must have been a fluke that the arrow had gone that far, the woman’s arms were too slight to fire something with so much power.

“On your way to Whiterun?” Aela asked, “if you are, go to Jorrvaskr, we could use skill like yours.”

“It…it was nothing,” the woman responded, unable to look at Aela, the bow still clutched in her hand. It was an imperial bow or at least a forgery of one that had done quite well for itself.

“Consider The Companions anyway,” Aela insisted before letting the woman go. The three watched her as she continued on her way to Whiterun, “they won’t let her in,” Aela remarked, “I hope she can talk them into it.”

The three turned their attention back to the Giant and began to move it off the farmland, well, Aela and Farkas did with the help of some of the farm hands – Ria had gone chasing after the cow that had bolted and not yet returned. They heaved and hawed the giant off the land in a few hours and left it over a small hill, hoping that the weather would get rid of it quickly and give them only a few days of rotten flesh. The last thing to do was for Farkas to take off the Giant’s toes so they could be sent on to a buyer in Riften, whoever they were Farkas didn’t know. He was just doing as he was told.

“Do you think she’ll join?” Aela asked, fidgeting with the apple in her hand as tried to settle down at the table. They’d returned and vouched for Ria, now a full member of The Companions, and were drinking the night away as they always did. Farkas could only hope that Ria stayed alive.

“Who’ll join?” Vilkas asked, sitting down beside his brother, “you’ve not invited another one have you Aela?”

“This one hit the giant, killed it,” Farkas mumbled, his eyes staring into the fire, an unworthy replacement for the afternoon of basking he’d missed, “right in the eye.” Vilkas nodded, trying to ignore the smug look on Aela’s face. Farkas ignored both of them, eyes on the fire. He saw the giant fall, the woman stood atop some rocks that had somehow given her such a perfect shot. She didn’t look to be trained with a bow and didn’t look strong enough to fire it with such power. There was something amiss and he was almost grateful he had not seen her face again.

"What's bothering you, brother?" Vilkas asked, watching as Aela disappeared with Skjor, wondering if they were going to hunt or elsewhere. Farkas didn't like to think of where they were going, though jealously came to him as the thoughts came anyway. He'd given his word to Kodlak, just as his brother had, and he too dreamed of Sovngarde but he was no fool to his own desires either. 

"Nothing," Farkas mumbled in answer, "I'm going to bed."

"To drink alone?" Vilkas laughed. Farkas ignored his brother and his falling face, his own face set in stone as he disappeared.


	6. The Age of Aggression VI - Martolode

She didn’t know what had possessed her to even try and fire the shot, but the arrow had left the bow given to her by Hadvar before she truly knew what she was doing. Martolode watched as the arrow whistled across the sky and had to close her eyes when she heard the squelch of it entering the giant’s eye. Martolode felt bile rose in her stomach but she forced it back down.

“She took my shot!” A voice yelled Martolode lifted her head to see a somehow armoured but scantily clad woman with a slash of war paint across her face, turning and racing towards her. Martolode quickly jumped down onto one of the lower rocks, bow still in hand should she need it. A quick escape or backing out of this slowly? She couldn’t decide and had, “hey! You! Wait!” Bellowed at her. She supposed the woman would have just killed her by now if it was so much of problem, so she stayed put.

“On your way to Whiterun?” the war-painted woman asked, “if you are, go to Jorrvaskr, we could use skill like yours.” Martolode wondered exactly what skill the woman meant, that had been a fluke and she was rather surprised the giant hadn’t firstly survived and secondly then come and stamped her flat.

“It…it was nothing,” Martolode responded, averting her eyes from the woman who’d had her shot stolen, the bow still clutched in her hand.

“Consider The Companions anyway,” the woman insisted before letting Martolode go. She was certainly glad to go, only giving herself enough time to exchange a look with the only man in the group of giant slayers. He looked gruff and almost certainly was older than her, his face dirtied and splashed of black war paint over his eyes, bright blue eyes that pierced the soul. With her one quick look, she jumped down from the last rock and continued on to Whiterun without so much of a goodbye.

She ran along the road and up past the stables, coming to a skidding stop at the closed gates. A guard came down to speak to her, telling her that she couldn’t possibly be allowed in with dragons on the loose. Desperation for air clawed at her lungs, pain flared in her arms as she heard the dragon roar in her mind and spew its fire onto the innocent people below.

“Riverwood is in danger, I was sent to request help from the Jarl,” her words came out between pants. The guard changed almost instantly and snapped at the other to allow Martolode through.

“Straight up, through the market and up the stairs. You can’t miss it from there,” he instructed before allowing Martolode through.

The guard’s directions were easy to follow and Martolode rushed through the marketplace and up both sets of stairs before being greeted by a third set that seemed to last eternity. At the top stood a great building, as old as time itself, looming over the city and the townsfolk. Martolode had heard of Dragonsreach but never seen it, too far away and too poor to ever come to Whiterun, it was certainly something to behold. Still, exhaustion gripped at her as the dragon’s roar rang in her ears once more. So, she began to climb.

Martolode was allowed into Dragonsreach to be met with the sight an anxious Imperial arguing with the Jarl’s Dunmer Housecarl. The Jarl, it appeared, was neither amused nor interested in their bickering and his eyes instead watched Martolode as she approached. He was an imposing man, sitting upon his throne as if he were King, with his little golden circlet and fine clothes. The Dunmer stopped the argument short when she saw where the Jarl’s eyes had drifted to and drew her sword. She moved slowly towards Martolode, perhaps moving with more care than she usually offered to such intruders.

“State your business, no one should be allowed in to interrupt the Jarl’s council,” the Dunmer lifted her sword a little, perhaps hoping that Martolode would shrink away. As far as she was concerned, it had looked more like an argument than a council but perhaps that’s what these things were and any other Breton would have laughed at her for such a remark.

“Let her be, Irileth,” the Jarl commanded from his chair, far more interested in what Martolode had come to say than what his staff had argued over, “come here, Breton.” Martolode glanced at the Dunmer who apprehensively sheathed her sword and stepped out of her way, allowing her to make her way up to the Jarl. She wondered how everyone seemed to know she was a Breton but left the question where it was in her head. It didn’t matter really, “what do you have to tell me that’s so important to interrupt?”

“A dragon destroyed Helgen. Alvor of Riverwood is afraid that the same may happen to his village,” Martolode answered, fire at her back that would not diminish.

“The Blacksmith, hardy fellow? Not one for fantasies?” The Jarl asked, “honest man. Are you sure that Helgen was really burnt down, not some Stormcloak raid gone wrong?”

For a moment, sarcasm was on the tip of Martolode’s tongue but she thought better of it and simply responded with,  
“I was there.”

“Irileth, you were right,” the Jarl leant back into his chair, looking at his housecarl with a look of guilt on his face, “it’s true. It’s all true. Have more men sent to Riverwood at once.”

“The Jarl of Falkreath might take that as us joining Ulfric and preparing to attack,” the steward jumped in, “we can’t risk that.”

“I’m loyal to Whiterun and I will protect my people, Proventus, if Siddgeir has a problem with that he can take it up with me – or send that Bard he brings with him everywhere,” Balgruuf’s nose twitched at his own mention of this bard, “Irileth, ready your men as soon as you can.”

“You sought me out, on your own initiative and thus, you’ve done Whiterun a service, your name, Breton?” The Jarl asked.

“Martolode.”

“You could do with some proper armour, Martolode,” Balgruuf commented, looking up and down at the poorly fitted armour that she wore, “Proventus, write a note to your daughter and have Martolode take it with her, the expense will come out of our treasury.” The steward disappeared without a word, still bitter from the way he had been brushed off.

“There is, something else you can do for me, come, let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He’s been looking into the matters related to dragons and these…rumours of dragons,” the Jarl continued, standing and gesturing for Martolode to follow him into the adjacent wizard’s study while Irileth disappeared to go and prepare the men for Riverwood, “don’t mind Farengar, he means well.” _That bodes well_ , Martolode thought to herself.

In the Wizard’s laboratory was the most curious site of a Nord wizard, hard to come by with their fear of magic, he was rather absent-mindedly wandering across his floor.

“Don’t take another step!” Martolode shouted, “your rune!” The wizard, rather startled, looked down to discover his foot was mere inches away from landing on a rune spell he had cast not moments ago. The wizard took a step back, zapped the rune with some sparks and then turned to them as it exploded. Balgruuf did not look pleased.

“I think she can help you with your…Dragons,” Balgruuf explained, trying not to grumble as he watched his carpet continue to char. His very, very expensive carpet. Farengar gave Martolode a suspicious look and then looked to Balgruuf with a raised eyebrow just visible from behind his hood.

“Really? This skinny little thing?” Farengar asked, looking Martolode up and down with his eyebrow still raised.

“She survived Helgen, Farengar,” Balgruuf informed the Nord wizard, who took a step back and Martolode let out a yelp and sent her wolf onto the second shock rune, sending Farengar across the room, leaving him in a heap. Balgruuf grimaced, “I’m going to let that one go, I need my court wizard but please cast your magic elsewhere in other…situations.”

“Well, I suppose she will be of some use,” Farengar grumbled, getting up from the heap he had been left in by the blast, “a quick thinker it seems.” He brushed himself off and returned to his desk, this time watching every step he took as he advanced towards them. He gave Martolode a pained smile, his mouth twisting as he did so.

“So, I need you to get me something. Well, by that I mean delve into a tomb with gods know what in it to get an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there,” Farengar explained. Martolode paused for a moment, chewing on her lip. What was the worst that could happen? Actually, she didn’t want to think about it.

“All right. Where am I going and what am I getting?”

“Straight to the point,” Farengar commented, “good.” He then proceeded to explain that he would be sending Martolode up to Bleak Falls Barrow, the same tomb Hadvar had pointed out to her on the road to Riverwood, to look for this stone tablet that may or may not be there. He insisted that anything would be useful, the stone may not be there but something else might. Martolode wasn’t sure if Farengar really wanted to help with whatever effort was needed, over merely learning about the shadow that had flown over Helgen.

“Think you can do it?” He finished with, eyebrows raised at Martolode. Martolode wanted to shake her head and run the other way but something had grabbed hold of her heart and tugged. She refused to believe in destiny, but something was telling her to do this on the pain of everyone else. So, she nodded.

“Hey, Breton,” Irileth stopped Martolode as she made to leave, dropping a coin purse in her hands, “take this to Athis, he’s a Companion, he’ll be at Jorrvaskr, ask for training with that sword. Say I sent you. The Jarl has a lot of faith in you, don’t let it be wasted.” Martolode was given no time to thank the Dunmer before she turned and left to gather guards to send to Riverwood. Martolode looked down at the purse and weighed it in her hand, heavy.

She went to Adrianne first, who measured her at least three times before deciding that everything was right and telling her to be back in the morning. The Blacksmith had decided that Light Armour would best suit Martolode, at least for now. Adrianne then kindly directed her to either The Drunken Huntsman or Bannered Mare for something eat, the Mare for somewhere to stay for the night.

Martolode, for all her life in a foreign land, had never felt so lost. Whiterun was bigger than any of places she’d visited in Skyrim and she’d never once set foot in what had been the closest capital to the farm, Markarth, not that she’d ever wanted to. She wandered along the streets, back up the steps and thought of her family. Had they gone to Jehanna? Or had they gone all the way back to Daggerfall?

Martolode sat on the bench around the decaying tree, watching three children playing together, running down the steps and laughing between their shouting at one another. She could see her youngest brothers do the same, shouting at one another in Breton because they knew the old Nord lady hated it. Her mother, fierce woman she’d be, coming out and barking at them to stop but in her thicker dialect just to annoy the old lady more.

Oh, to be a stranger was such a terrible but blissful thing.


	7. The Age of Aggression VII - Eydis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just quick to say this isn't the Eydis you meet in Old Hroldan, she won't be making an appearance in this, but my own character. I picked the name and then met the Eydis there but the name stuck...

Mists descended on Falkreath again, as usual, the sun that should have shone on the town hid behind a façade of clouds. People of Falkreath were accustomed to this weather and lived in it as Argonians lived in the wetlands of Blackmarsh and the Altmer lived in the glistening sun of Alinor. People of a climate will always live in a climate, however small it might be.

The sky cracks open and rain followed the mist, falling upon the residents as they went about their day. A timber worker chopped his wood, a priest sheltered in the graveyard and a bard hummed as she waited for the return of the Jarl. A merchant stood outside his shop, watching the woman in the rain as she hummed a song for the god of the hunt, a good song if despicable. Her silver hair was already sodden, as she watched from under the cover of a tree, listening for the gallop of hooves.

The merchant broke from his shop, dashing across the road to cower under the tree with the bard, standing with their shoulders brushing, looking for the Jarl.

“You ought to be inside, Eydis,” the merchant commented, standing over her if as it would shield the woman from the droplets, “you’ll catch cold.”

“Pfft, we are Nords, Solaf,” the bard laughed but she allowed her hand to be taken and to be dragged across the road and into the merchant’s shop.

It was warm and cosy inside the merchant’s shop, absent of customers with the pouring rain, the bard sat herself beside the man’s fire and attempted to dry herself, wringing out her hair. Solaf watched her, his arms folded and a small shake of the head. He disappeared only momentarily to retrieve his brother from the rain and so the sawmill fell silent and stood still.

“I hope Siddgeir doesn’t make himself ill again,” Eydis sniffed, running fingers through her hair in the hope that it would dry soon. The timber worker huffed at the woman, to which she snapped, “Bolund, you can’t wish someone poor health just because he doesn’t agree with you.” Bolund huffed again and sat at the other side of the fire, waiting for it to dry him rather than making any attempt to do it himself.

“You can look for him from upstairs if you wish,” Solaf smiled at Eydis who took his offer with delight and disappeared up the ladder, leaving the two men alone.

“You can’t expect her to be on our side anymore, brother,” Solaf sighed, standing behind his counter and leaning on it, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he listened to the rain beat down on the roof above them. His brother gave him only a look of discontent before turning back to the fire, as if Solaf was not there at all. He’d come to, eventually. That, or he’d run off back to Windhelm before Solaf and his limp could stop him.

Above them Eydis watched from the door and listened from the balcony above Gray Pine Goods, barely out of the rain as she looked beyond the gates of the town. Part of her wished she could jump down from the balcony to greet the Jarl but it would surely kill her, if not break plenty of bones, either way, she’d have Runil over her – the only difference would be if he was delivering a sermon or lecturing her on the dangers of jumping from buildings.

The hammer hooves filled the air as the rain began to relent and Eydis heard a cry of triumph as the thunder grew louder. Deciding to be sensible, she retreated behind the building descending the steps that would place her by the gates of Falkreath. The thundering grew louder still, deafening any who stood too close and scattering animals in the surrounding trees. There would be plenty of wolves at the gates tonight.

The Jarl and his men crashed through into the town, missing Eydis entirely as they came to a stop a few yards from where she stood as the rain came to a gradual stop and for once the sun spilt out onto Falkreath. Eydis gripped her two hands together as she watched the Jarl jump down off his horse and pat the mare’s back affectionately. Her reigns handed to a stablehand, the Jarl began to search for Eydis.

The bard had not taken two steps forward before she found herself in the air, looking down on Jarl Siddgeir in the safe grip of his arms. They laughed together as she ran a hand through his sopping wet hair and planted a kiss on top of his head before he dropped her back down to her usual height. A gloved hand came to her waist and drew her in, kissing her gently and simply on the mouth. Eydis held his shoulder tightly and beyond them, an old warrior looked on with discontent.

“Allow me,” Siddgeir smiled at the door to Longhouse, lifting Eydis off her feet and mumbling, “I hope Nenya didn’t lock this,” before kicking the door open. To his relief, it swung open, startling the Elven Steward, who let out a strangled yelp as Siddgeir sauntered in, Eydis in his arms. The Elven woman got to her feet with a sigh as she watched the Jarl, not saying a word until Eydis’ feet were on the ground.

“A good hunt?” Nenya asked, producing a pile of papers that brought a groan from Siddgeir.

“As good as it could be in the mist and pouring rain,” he grumbled, stripping off his top layer before disappearing into his room to get rid of the rest and change into something a little dryer, “what are those.”

“Just things for you to sign, Jarl Siddgeir,” Nenya sighed, placing the papers down on the table, looking up at Eydis with raised eyebrows.

“Must I,” Siddgeir groaned, appearing from behind the door with a scowl on his face.

“Yes, you must,” Nenya almost snapped, “you can’t ignore dragons.”

“I’ll sing while you sign them,” Eydis interjected, “pass the time.” Siddgeir grudgingly accepted the woman’s suggestion, sitting down heavily in front of the pile as Nenya sent down quill and ink. Eydis seated herself on his other side, her feet on the bench beside him, watching his hand. His free hand came to rest on her thigh while his other moved across the endless paper. Eydis kept her promise and sang of dragons and soldiers, sea monsters and sailors until the pile was done.

“Freedom?” He asked, looking up at Eydis, his hand aching while the other squeezed her thigh gently.

“Freedom,” Eydis smiled, standing up and getting down from the table, pulling the Jarl with her, pushing him back until he sat in his chair. He grabbed and pulled at her, both of them laughing, until Siddgeir managed to pull Eydis onto his lap and held onto her. Neither of them laughed, instead Siddgeir rested his nose and mouth against her back and closed his eyes, arms tight around her waist. Just for a moment.

There was a cough and Eydis lifted her head to see Thadgeir stood at the door, she was quick to pry herself from Siddgeir’s grip and moved away, watching the old man from behind one of the wooden stands that held the Longhouse up. Thadgeir regarded her for a moment before turning to his son.

“You cannot keep leaving the hold like this,” he snapped at his son, “there are dragons – dragons, boy – roaming free and they attack our hold and you have the gall to go hunting?” He spied Eydis again and snapped, “Gods, woman, go elsewhere!” He did not speak again until the bard had run from the Longhouse altogether.

“You were put in charge because you fit the Empire and you’re a good liar,” Thadgeir continued, “don’t look at me like that, we all know that you’re a Talos worshipper as you should be. You’re not your Uncle, don’t become him in your indulgences either.”

“You won’t make me get rid of her,” Siddgeir sighed, leaning back on his throne as if he had won the argument, “however hard you try.”

“I care not about that Bard but gods willing you’ll grow tired of her and marry a respectable woman,” Thadgeir spat, “it seems you are as good at deluding yourself as you are lying to others. Foolish boy.” With that Thadgeir turned and left. Siddgeir watched him, slumping ever lower until the air was cut from his lungs and he forced himself back up again.

Outside Eydis had been ambushed by Tekla, Dengeir’s maid and a great hater of the bard, whatever for she couldn’t quite tell was a joke she made to herself often. She knew exactly why. There were no words exchanged between them, only a bashing of a shoulder and Eydis’ cry. Part of her wanted to call back, insult the woman but she moved past it and instead went to the graveyard.

An old haunt, she came to the stones that marked where her mother and father lay. Only 30, they had been gone from her life for some time and coming here meant almost nothing to her. There wasn’t much to remember. Still, the stones brought comfort, a familiarity even if the givers could no longer be seen nor heard.

“You’ve returned, Lady Eydis,” Runil commented, standing on the other side of the stones, “sometimes it seems you are never away.”

“Hello to you too, Runil,” Eydis sighed, “and still calling me Lady.”

“You’re as close as this town is to having one,” Runil’s old eyes twinkled, “it’s a shame Siddgeir hasn’t taken you as his bride yet.”

“He never will, we both know that,” Eydis sighed, sinking down, “no one approves except the two of us and an old priest.” She looked up to Runil, afraid she’d offended the elderly Altmer but instead she earned a quiet chuckle from him. He bade her goodbye, wishing her well, leaving her to her mourning.

They wouldn’t have approved either. A fierce Nord couple who had met on the battlefield would not have approved at all of Siddgeir. His love for money, his hatred for Talos worshippers and his love for himself over all others. She couldn’t imagine how much they would have hated him, a scared little boy who played every note he was told. Eydis almost pitied the Jarl.

As she turned her back on her parents, the heavens broke once more, pouring rain down onto grim and grey Falkreath, the bard retreating inside this time.


	8. The Age of Aggression VIII - Martolode

The trek up to Bleak Falls Barrow was a harsh one, the snow beating down even on such a pleasant day of Last Seed froze Martolode to her bones. It didn’t feel like the potions to resist the cold were working on her, a native of High Rock of all places, and they tasted vile. Still, she persisted, coming to a small structure as the great stone beams leading to the ruin loomed above her head.

Maybe she should have brought someone with her. She could see from here that two people, bandits most likely, lurked in the thick snow and she was hardly convinced she could pull off her shot at the giant again. Instead, she hid behind a rock. A soft whisper brought the wolf to her side, having it sit at her feet as she readied the bow. She leant over the rock, choosing her target before slipping back down again for cover. If she got her mark right, she could pierce his neck easily while the wolf distracted, if not took care of, the woman. One more look over the rock.

Martolode shifted silently, pulling back the bow from where she crouched, hoping that someone was looking over her. Back and back she drew the bow until it would go no further. The wolf stood ready, paws on the rock, waiting for her signal to pounce over the rock and charge. Sure of herself, praying to whichever god would listen, Martolode let the string go and the wolf snarled as it threw itself over the rock and into the snow.

The arrow missed its target almost completely, whistling past the man and alerting both to their presence. The wolf barely had time to pounce before it was knocked aside by the man, bringing his war hammer against its side. The animal hit the side of the watchtower with a sickening crunch and it slipped down the side, unmoving. It was too late to worry about the poor thing, the two had turned their attention to Martolode.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing now, retrieving another arrow from her quiver and drawing back the bow to fire again. The arrow shot through the air as the man stampeded towards her. Surely it would miss again, he’d bring his war hammer down on her head and that would be the end of Martolode. It hit its mark.

The woman let out a roar of anguish and followed in the man’s charge, sword drawn. Martolode attempted to keep her feet as she stepped back, ever quicker to avoid the woman’s swings. It took a duck and a roll to get out of the way of the blade. Martolode turned and ran, into the watchtower and up the wooden stairs. No wolf would come at her call, and she felt the energy begin to drain from her as the woman began her ascent of the stairs to where Martolode waited.

Martolode had barely a moment to look down at the flames in her hand before she lifted them and let them go from her hand, a continuous stream. She could feel her own hands burning as the woman screamed in agony, the flames hitting her. The platform caught fire and Martolode stopped the stream, running back down the steps, falling on the second set of stairs in narrowly avoiding a last-ditch swing of a sword. Martolode had barely crawled out of the structure before it collapsed with the final fatal scream of the woman.

That was no Frostbite Spider, no Troll. That was a human.

Martolode forced herself up onto her feet, if this was where life was to take her then she’d have to get used to this. A sick feeling rose to her throat as she rummaged through the pockets of the man she’d shot down, leaving him with a bit of dignity and only taking what she thought she’d need. Things that would keep her alive.

Her little show had very much notified those on the steps of the Barrow that she was there, and they had come running. Martolode shrank behind her rock again and prayed that she’d live. Perhaps they wouldn’t see her. Voices began to fill her ears, but she could not look for fear of being seen, of being accused.

“Just the wolf,” one muttered, dismissing the scene, “must have knocked over a lantern.” Martolode had almost let out a sigh of relief when another stopped her,

“Look, he’s got an arrow in the eye.”

“Ha! First one in the knee, then one in the eye,” the first voice laughed, “someone’s here.”

“They might have run off,” the second voice pointed out.

“Can’t have, there’s no tracks down the mountain, only up.” Oh no. Martolode looked down the very same tracks that led to where she hid behind the rock. Gods above, she was going to die. There was nothing else for it.

Martolode appeared from behind the rock, grabbing an arrow and firing at one of the men. This time, the arrow hit its mark and grounded the man while the other had barely any time before Martolode had come at him with a sword drawn. He drew his own clumsily and lunged at her. _“Always let them make the first move, the first mistake”_ Athis’ words rang in her head as she avoided the point and went for the man’s throat. Pulling back, she watched him crumple. Four down, who knew how many more to go.

There was some animalistic that came over Martolode as she made her way up the steps of the Barrow. All too quickly it had become easy to fight off the bandits who came for her on the steps, however many there were. Reaching the doors was almost too easy and while part of her wanted to tell herself that they were merely bandits, she also knew no one caught onto these skills this quickly.

The door was easy enough to find and Martolode pulled it open slowly, slipping through and crouching, leaning further forward until the door shut lightly. Who knew what was beyond it. Likely more bandits but she could think of the Draugr Hadvar still didn’t like very much and the Hagravens men of the Reach gave their hearts to. She’d only seen one Briar Heart in her life, he had been with a company of Forsworn who passed the farm. They hadn’t attacked them, simply for being Bretons, and had moved along with somewhere else as their goal. It had been a good job the Nord lady who owned the farm had not ventured outside.

Behind the door, a great hall held its head high and a fire crackled not too far away, casting two shadows along the ground. Bandits. Martolode crept along the floor, trying to watch them and where she put her feet with every step. Shielded by some fallen roof, Martolode pulled back her bow, hands steady. The one on the left was better armoured and would be hard to take care of without some damage done to him. She fired and the arrow hit its mark with ease, piercing the back of his neck and leaving him dead. A quick enough pair of hands saw the other much the same before he could spot Martolode behind the rubble. She took potions from them and searched their chest for more arrows; she was beginning to run low.

After acquiring what was useful, Martolode continued to creep through the ruin, one pointed ear turned so that she might hear better. Nothing seemed to be there, nothing jumped out as she slid down the small slope and carried on through its corridors. The vines ran thick and any degree of care taken still didn’t stop her from stumbling once or twice.

“Who’s there?” A voice called as Martolode came towards a doorway, she backed away until hidden as a man in fur armour emerged. Another bandit, “shame, thought one of you might be there to help me with this puzzle.” The man huffed and turned around again, going back into the room. Martolode followed him this time, moving carefully across the floor until she could see into the room.

She watched as the man pulled the lever and a hoard of poison darts shot from the wall, piercing him and leaving him to crumple. Martolode turned away and shielded her ears as he died, she’d heard enough deer gag on poison arrows to know that the sounds he was making were not meant for mortals’ ears. She even closed her eyes for a moment and it was only when she was sure she’d hear no more than she stood up straight and entered the room herself.

Above her head were two faces, each with a symbol in their mouth, and a third on the floor that had crumbled years ago, once in the middle. To the left there were three pillars, clearly, this was the puzzle the man had been trying to solve. Each pillar had a grove of a handprint above its symbol. Easy enough really, plenty of people might have suggested the bandit might have been better off dead.

Martolode recited the pattern in her head as she pressed her hand into the first grove. _Snake_. The second. _Snake_. Finally, the third. _Whale_. Perhaps some potions to resist poison might have been more helpful than the ones to resist cold. She stepped back and then turned, hauling the lever before jumping back desperately out of the path of the darts. To her relief, the gate lifted and she only paused to take anything from the man’s body before moving on.

Through the gate were a chest and some urns, along with the sound of squeaking. A quick blast of fire took care of the Skeevers, quite possibly Martolode’s least favourite animals before she went to investigate the suspiciously unlocked chest. Lifting the lid revealed a quiver of arrows, almost bringing a sob of joy from her as she thought of the ten she had left, as well as a garnet. She took both, the garnet, she decided, was for Sigrid and Alvor when she went back to Riverwood.

Down rickety wooden stairs brought more skeevers, a sword had to be used on them this time for fear of cutting off what may have been her only escape route. Just ahead she could hear a light scuttling sound and what sounded like a human voice. Keeping her sword at her side and the wolf readied in her hand, Martolode ran up the corridor. This had been a mistake.

Her foot caught on one of the vines and she crashed through the opening, onto the floor. Disorientated and vaguely aware of something _not very nice_ touching her head, she struggled to get to her feet as something came up to her with a faint click, click, click. Frostbite Spider. At this realisation she was quick to roll away and get up, sword brandished. Before she called upon the wolf she spotted a deep wound in the spider’s side. It wouldn’t last.

With quick feet taking her to the side, out of the monster’s reach, she turned and drove her sword into the already deep wound. Deeper still she went until it began to writhe and shriek, eventually crumpling. The small satchel on her side yielded two empty bottles, which she used to store the spider’s venom for…future use.

“Hey, hey you,” shouted a voice, “come cut me down, come on, there’s treasure up here.” Martolode frowned at the Dunmer in the web, “I’ve got the claw!” He tried to bargain, undeterred by Martolode’s confused face. _What claw?_ He demanded she cut him down again and this time she obliged, he’d be weak anyway, if he turned on her it wouldn’t be hard to stop him.

Perhaps she should have expected that the thief turned and ran as soon as he was free of his restraints, no claw given to her, whatever that was. Something told Martolode to keep her distance, though she followed him through the corridors. A guide, she was grateful for but she had her doubts as to how long he would last. There was something else in here and she didn’t want to be the first to encounter it.

Up just ahead the Dunmer made a battle cry as half preserved bodies descended upon him. He killed a few but eventually, he fell and it was left to Martolode to fire her arrows at them before they could spot her. They took more work and more broken arrows than anything living and Martolode found herself wanting to turn and run all the way back to High Rock. They might have bigger Frostbite Spiders but she was _sure_ they didn’t have whatever these were.

What she could only presume to be Draugr dead, she moved silently across the crypt, towards Arvel’s body. Whatever this claw was would at least be of some value, she hadn’t exactly been given much to get back on her feet – however kind Alvor and Sigrid had been. The claw had scraped across the floor as the bandit died and was dented but it would do. Perhaps it would be useful, another puzzle piece perhaps.

Martolode all but forced her way around the rest of the Barrow, crawling and clawing her way under swinging axes, pulling a chain and hoping to stop them so she’d have a clearer way out. More draugr came for her and though she knew she was bleeding from somewhere, they could not kill her. Any cuts and bruises she did what she could to heal, using her spells on herself and holding her nose as she tipped Health potions down her throat. If this was going to be her life, she needed to get better at fighting.

Eventually, she came to an ancient door with three rings and a keyhole for…well, it must have been the claw. Like the pillars, the rings had symbols on and it was only after a glance around the room that she consulted the claw. Shaped like the shadow’s foot, on the bridge were three circles – each with an animal. Martolode stepped up to the rings and seeing no groves for her hand, pushed the small circles on the rings.

She moved each until they replicated the pattern on the claw; _bear, moth, owl_. She pressed the claw into the keyhole and the door began to shake, taking the claw with her Martolode stepped back and watched the rings twist and turn. Slowly, the completed door began to descend into the ground, revealing a staircase and a great power, once concealed, pulling her.

Up the stairs, Martolode found herself in a room that moonlight filtered into. The power grew stronger, Martolode forgetting the care she had taken as she moved across the room towards it, whatever the harbour of this power was. Where moonlight cast onto a curved wall, old words in a language she could not understand yet she understood everything.

A word spoke to her. Consumed her. The essence of the world wrapped around her body, filling her mind with a meaning that she could make no sense of. Then it left her, on her knees, head pressed to the floor as she desperately tried to get her breath back.

Something creaked and took steps behind her, Martolode barely had time to look before she had to role out of the way as a sword came down where she had been. Another Draugr but this one was bigger, better armoured than the others. Fire would have to bring down this one, along with the wolf from the soul cairn.

From her hand it leapt, as flames took the summoning’s place, the wolf worried at the Draugr’s leg while flames burnt it. A force came from its mouth, shaking the wolf off and making Martolode stumble but the flames were working, it couldn’t move fast enough to get her before a final blast came from her hand and it crumbled to the floor as a pile of dust. Only the leg, firmly clenched between the wolf’s jaw was left.

With claw in hand and Dragonstone in the bag given to her by Farengar, Martolode made a run for it. She didn’t want to wait around for anything worse.


	9. The Age of Aggression IX - Irileth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I diverted a bit from the normal storyline for Dragon Rising for the purpose of adding a bit of character to Irileth, I like her but she's not very much. So there's some diversion from normal dialogue and some bits have been cut for brevity's sake; we've all played the game, we all know what happens.
> 
> Also the "special guest" in the chapter, not to give anything away, is also an OC

“Breton, go speak to the Jarl,” Irileth snapped, barging into the woman’s conversation with Farengar, “Farengar, you need to come at once, there’s been reports of a dragon nearby.” The wizard’s face lit up as the Breton disappeared upstairs to where the Jarl was waiting and Irileth scowled at him, “don’t get so excited, if that thing attacks the city, I’m not sure we can stop it. The attack on Helgen didn’t leave anyone for the Jarl of Falkreath to bury. Come on.”

Upstairs one of the guards was explaining to the Jarl where and what he had seen at the Watchtower, his helmet under his arm and pale Nordic face redder than any apple. Irileth stood back, listening, waiting to be told what to do. The Breton seemed to be doing the same, at least she had the sense to do that and she had come back from Bleak Falls alive. Irileth hadn’t expected that.

“Irileth, have some of your men gather, it might not be much but we need to know what’s happened and kill that thing,” Balgruuf instructed but, as always, Irileth was one step ahead and had sent word for it to be done already. She’d done it as soon as the man now hurriedly explaining himself had come in. It was unfortunate the men wouldn’t know what they were facing until she arrived to tell them. Perhaps it would help.

“Martolode, go with Irileth,” Balgruuf then instructed the Breton and Irileth could see the argument ready to spill from the woman’s mouth but she relented and agreed to do so. For a moment, Irileth had sympathy for her as the Jarl sent away the guard for food and rest, while Martolode had barely slept and probably ached with every movement she made. Yet, the Jarl already valued her highly and she would have to begin to live up to that value if she wanted to stay in his good graces. The Jarl, at least, explained himself, “you survived Helgen, so you have more experience with Dragons than the rest of us.” It would have to do, for now, the woman seemed convinced.

Balgruuf was quick to shoot down Farengar, telling him that he was needed here in the city to work on ways to defend them from the Dragons. This was the Jarl’s subtle way to suggesting he didn’t have all that much faith in Farengar’s fighting ability and whether what there was it would be suited to fighting a dragon at all was hardly up for debate. It was when his eyes fell on Irileth herself that her chest filled with caution and it took all force not to step back, away from the Jarl.

“This isn’t a death or glory mission, Irileth,” this came out as a warning meant only for the Housecarl, “I need to know what we’re dealing with.” The second half came out as a warning to everyone, there was no glory in death that didn’t help others avoid their own. Nords loved their idea of Sovngarde but going to it early wasn’t always something they wanted. The men she’d gathered had wives, families, mothers and fathers who were still alive. Strange people, the Nords.

Once the Jarl was assured that Irileth would be at the height of caution, he sent the two women away to fight the shadow that flew over them. Martolode’s feet dragged and she could only just keep up with Irileth who eventually stopped her and shuffled through the woman’s potion pack, no need to ask, pulling out a stamina potion.

“Drink it,” Irileth grumbled, “you’ll be of more use. I don’t care if it tastes horrible, we’re facing a dragon.” The Breton glared at her but drank the potion, almost stumbling as it took its effect but most definitely more awake. Irileth continued to run and this time the Breton kept up with her, quick feet taking her down the first set of steps with ease. Irileth decided to ask her questions, “come on Breton, you must be someone, you aren’t just Martolode.”

“I worked on a farm near Markarth, I was taking some goods to Falkreath for the farm, at least, I tried. Imperials got me, nearly killed me, then a dragon nearly killed me,” Martolode answered as they dashed down the second set of steps, “not much else to me. Big family, I suppose that’s something.” Irileth didn’t like this answer.

“What was the nature of these…goods?” Irileth asked, eyes thinning as she slowed and frowned at the Breton’s back.

“They were carrots,” Martolode answered, turning and running backwards, albeit slower, “I suppose you could kill someone with a carrot if you tried hard enough…but they were carrots, oh, and a cabbage.” Irileth watched the Breton as she turned around again, running slower until Irileth caught up with her on the final set of stairs into the marketplace. She wasn’t lying; Irileth knew a liar when she heard one.

Briefing the men on what had happened went both ways Irileth had anticipated, most of them were prepared and ready for a dragon attack – well, as much as they could be all things considered – one was perhaps a little too excited. A few, however, decided very quickly that this would be the last mission they went on and either complained or mumbled prayers to Arkay in the hope he would guard their souls. At least, they all went, none remained behind. Strange people, the Nords.

They seemed to regard Martolode with curiosity at the least and suspicion at the most. Some of them had undoubtedly spotted her when she’d come racing through Whiterun not two days ago but anyone who’d never seen her before Martolode stuck out like a sore thumb. Still somewhat battered and bruised from her expedition up to Bleak Falls Barrow she looked far from fit to face a dragon. If she could do it once, maybe she could do it again. Irileth hoped so, it had been a long time since Balgruuf had found anyone worthy of very much at all.

There was no sign of the Dragon as they approached the Western Watchtower, but the damage had already been done and was clear to see without looking too hard. The side had crumbled and there were no other guards in sight, no one there to watch the skies. Irileth briefly glanced towards Martolode to see her looking straight ahead, a frown on her face and her head tilted slightly so her left ear pointed to the sky. Listening.

As they approached, a lone man appeared from the inside of the tower, coughing and spluttering. He fell from the ramp and was quickly attended to by two of the men Irileth had brought, being hauled to his feet and way from the Watchtower,

“Don’t stay here too long,” he paused to cough and splutter again, his absent helmet revealing singed hair and burns on the back of his head, “it’ll come back. Tor, it ate him! Hroki…the poor girl…” the guard then keeled over.

Martolode appeared to have been paying little attention to the man, as soon as Irileth’s head turned to her, the Breton’s head snapped in one direction. Her small hands drew an arrow from its quiver and she held it down, readied, her eyes scanning the sky. A distant rumble sounded and Martolode lifted her bow in what looked to be an instinct way. The dragon was returning for the final blow.

The ground shook and knocked some of the men to the ground as the beast approached, beating its wings as it swooped over the tower and around it. Irileth couldn’t help but stand, for just a second, and look upon this magnificent beast. A beast that would spew fire like the mountain that had all but destroyed her homeland and would kill the men around her before it killed her.

It took its first dive, spitting fire onto the men below but seemed to go straight for the Breton woman. She barely had time unleash an arrow, that bounced pathetically off the dragon’s scales, before she rolled out of the way of the flames. Irileth, untouched by the flames, took an arrow from her own quiver and fired. Her stronger arms sent it further and steady hands ensured it hit its mark, the Dragon’s soft underbelly. For a second the beast writhed in the air, perhaps not used to being hit by a mere mortal, before it returned to swoop over them again and bite and nash its jaws at them.

Others followed Irileth and aimed for its soft underbelly and throat that was absent of scales. It began to regard them as an annoyance and its attacks were aimed at them as well, leaving the little Breton time to run and fire her arrows from a distance. With each shot, her aim seemed to improve and one arrow even pierced between scales, forcing the monster to the ground.

All at once, the men of Whiterun, Irileth and the Breton descended on the beast with their own choice of weapon. Some stayed back and fired at it while others, Irileth and Martolode included, attempted to plunge swords into it and bash its scaly body with axes and Warhammers. The beast roared, breathing its fire and beating its tail. Irileth pressed her sword into its side, breaking the skin between the soft flesh and scales but a swift kick from its clawed foot sent her flying, the claws penetrating her armour as it did.

The world began to go dark and Irileth barely had the energy to heal herself, she had hit a rock and could feel each break in her back. How she had survived was a miracle, but it wouldn’t last much longer. For a moment, she thought of Morrowind and the home and people she’d left behind parents all those years ago. She could hear the roars of soldiers, on that battlefield where she had clashed with Balgruuf and he had been impressed by her. A mission for glory, it appeared to have become.

Irileth forced her eyes open for perhaps the last time to see the little Breton woman on top of the beast, sword in hand, the other gripping her horn as the blood-covered beast tossed this way and that trying to throw the woman off. A quick hand plunged the sword into its head, the beast slowly lowering its head and lying still. The woman, for a moment, gripped the horn and stayed where she was. Breathing. Living.

Irileth groaned, her back still aching and broken but the wound in stomach healed, she didn’t know where the energy had come from to do so but she was alive, that was what counted. Yet, looking down at her hands, there was no healing spell and they lay limp on her thighs. Another golden hand, rested on her stomach, sunlight dancing around long fingers of an Altmer woman. White hair, tinted with dull grey, came into Irileth’s vision and a frowning face followed.

“Know any healing spells, Breton?” The Altmer asked, both she and Irileth looking up to see Martolode. The movement elicited another groan of pain from Irileth and it was only the free hand of the Altmer woman that stopped her from letting her head drop.

“I’m not strong enough to do what you’re doing,” Martolode sighed, “I don’t have that kind of reserve.” The Altmer took her hand away from Irileth’s stomach and held it out to Martolode,

“Take it, take the ring, it’ll give you some extra, I should be fine with what I have.” Martolode did as asked, slipping the ring on, the Altmer muttering something in Altmeris neither could understand, “help me move her, be careful with her head.”

Irileth felt like nothing more than a rag doll as the Altmer woman and Martolode shifted her onto her front, her head still being held in place until the Altmer woman placed her bag under her chin so her spine was level. The Altmer woman directed Martolode’s hands to Irileth’s mid-back, mumbling something about deeper damage not being there while she worked on Irileth’s neck. She seemed to lie there forever and could feel with every click, her back reassembling under the touch of the two women. She wanted to scream and kick but no sound came out and her legs refused to move.

Finally, the Altmer woman dismissed Martolode and what felt like a quick zap to her lower back, bringing a screech from Irileth, mended it and her legs involuntarily kicked. The Altmer woman then helped her to her feet and Irileth was met with an astonishing sight. All her men stared at Martolode while some kind of essence surrounded her, coming straight from the Dragon.

“You’re…you’re Dragonborn!” One of the men called to Martolode, who was now shaking. She’d absorbed some kind of power and seemed to be struggling to keep her feet.

“I’m what?” Martolode asked, turning to face the man, “what does that mean?”

“How can she be Dragonborn, she’s a Breton,” one of the other men protested, “and more Elf than human by the looks of it.” This came out as a sneer and Martolode felt gentle hands on her shoulders, turning her head to see the Altmer woman glaring at the man as her fingers tightened a little.

“Still human, go on, shout!”

“I’m sorry, what?” Martolode asked, utterly confused by the man.

“You’re Dragonborn, so you can shout. Old Tiber Septim, he was Dragonborn too,” the guard explained, “imagine, you had some of his blood in you, you could be Empress.”

“Well, some say Talos was a Breton,” another Guard remarked, “but best not to talk about that,” he threw a glare at the Altmer woman stood beside Martolode, a hand still on her shoulder, “not that I ever heard of Tiber Septim killing any Dragons.”

“There weren’t any then, they’re just coming back,” the first guard huffed, Irileth finally recognising him as the one who had perhaps been a little too excited about the dragon attack, “go on, try and shout.”

“Go on,” the Altmer woman’s soft voice whispered in Martolode’s ear before she stepped away from her. Shout? How on earth could she shout? Martolode knew how to raise her voice, she had 4 younger brothers and a mother who worked the fields. None of those words seemed right, surely the guard couldn’t mean that. All that came to mind was the only word she had understood in Bleak Falls, the word that grabbed at her and tugged her to the wall.

“ _Fus_ ” A stream of power came out of Martolode’s mouth instead of a raised voice, knocking the now skeletal remains of Dragon along the path where it lay still once more. Martolode found herself stumbling, wide-eyed as she was caught by the Altmer woman, all of the guards staring in awe and a pained Irileth looking mildly surprised.

“The legends are true, you’re Dragonborn,” the guard wondered at Martolode, “that was shouting you just did!”

“What do you think, Irileth,” the second guard asked, “you’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I’m just glad that thing is dead,” Irileth snapped, “Martolode, I suggest you go and talk to Jarl Balgruuf. Quickly.” She watched the Breton woman as she distanced herself from the Altmer and escaped up towards Whiterun, seemingly exhausted again, her feet only carrying her as they refused to run. Irileth eyed the Altmer woman who turned and fled the other way. She could tell they’d meet again someday. For now, they had a dragon skeleton to investigate.  


	10. The Age of Aggression X - Eydis

Eydis smiled, head resting against Siddgeir, tracing the single scar on his chest. He was very proud of the scar, standing alone and devoid of any hair around it. He’d gotten it from a wolf as a teenager and liked to tell of how it had leapt upon him and – just before it could tear his throat out – he had stabbed it in the heart. Though supposedly unable to feel anything there anymore, he also seemed to rather enjoy it whenever Eydis would trace kisses down the long white line, as she was doing then.

Eydis then got up off the bed and attempted to gather up her clothes but strong arms locked around her waist and she shrieked as she was pulled back onto the bed, giggling as she landed. She smiled sickly sweet as she knelt, sitting lightly on Siddgeir’s middle. She traced her fingers along his face and down his neck, over his chest before leaping up again and this time darting to the other side of the room, dress in her arms. Siddgeir gave in this time and simply lay, watching her pull on her clothes and returning the kiss she blew before she departed.

“I see you’re wearing the same dress as yesterday,” Solaf commented as Eydis made her way up to the counter, Bolund making sure to ‘accidentally’ brush against her as he left to work on the mill. Eydis only gave a tired grumble in return, leaning on the counter.

“Long night?” Solaf couldn’t help the smirk on his face, “yes, I have the shipment before you ask.” Eydis gave him a smile and dropped a coin purse on the counter, staying as Solaf emptied it and began to count.

“You know, I still don’t know what you see in the Jarl,” Solaf remarked as he began his second count, “he’s nothing more than an Imperial pawn. He’s so lazy, I thought that wouldn’t suit you at all. What happened to the Eydis Dragontamer who came all the way to Windhelm, just for me?”

“That Eydis came for you and her brother,” Eydis corrected, “she went away for a few years and when she came back you were seeing someone else,” Eydis answered with a shrug.

“And you had been sleeping with my brother,” Solaf added.

“I had indeed. Give my regards to Tekla,” Eydis smiled.

“And mine to the Jarl!” Solaf called back as Eydis left, a throwaway wave over her shoulder leaving after her.

Eydis smiled at Tekla as she ventured out into the streets of Falkreath; a glare was all she got in return before she was whisked off her feet by Bolund. She laughed and demanded he put her down and go back to his mill, to which he obliged and set her down gently on the ground. Though he tried to keep her, she insisted on returning to the Jarl, much to his dismay but Bolund let her be. She didn’t exactly need to return so quickly but despite Solaf’s suggestion of otherwise, Eydis had grown tired of Bolund’s rhetoric and she no longer found the oaf so lovable. The Jarl, for what it was worth, did not spy someone with darker hair and immediately consider them a threat.

Eydis ran a hand through her shining silver hair and slipped into the graveyard, watching Mathies and his wife and listening to the soft drone of Runil. Poor girl, in the ground, or what was left of her anyway. Eydis had been with Siddgeir when the incident had been brought to his attention. The child had been…pieces and the man begged no memory of what he had done but Siddgeir hadn’t fallen for it. The two had then spent the night very much awake and afraid of what was lurking in their little town.

Not far from where Eydis stood among the trees were two women, also observing the funeral. The taller of the two was a Nord with black hair, head to toe in steel armour while the other was a somewhat smaller Breton woman with the same black hair. Eydis lifted her hand to her grey stands and mourned her blonde for a moment before the two women began to move from the graveyard. Heading right for the Jarl’s Longhouse.

Eydis moved around them, first behind and then to the side. She ran down the steps and threw open the hatch that led to the kitchens. She ignored the cook’s bewildered face and clambered up the ladder, just out of sight, listening.

“You can get me some Black-Briar mead, as a token,” Siddgeir suggested. Eydis having to repress any gripe she had with such a request. The shipment she’d ordered in had come that morning, the gall of him. Why it was right under the ladder she was currently perched on. Ah. She dropped down off the ladder and grabbed one of the crowbars, splitting the lid from the box with ease and lifting it. She snatched a bottle from the box and darted back out to catch the two women.

“Here, take this to him at the end of the day,” she smiled, handing over the bottle to the bewildered Breton, “go and meet people, do them favours.” Eydis then took her leave, the Breton and Nord women still stood somewhat befuddled by the entire interaction. Eydis disappeared into the Longhouse without so much as a glance back at them.

“Why, if it isn’t my favourite bard,” Siddgeir smiled upon Eydis’ entrance. He was given a smile in return and when she came close enough, he pulled Eydis to him and sat her on his lap. The Bard wriggled and writhed in his arms, giggling wildly as his hands moved over her body, tickling. She calmed as his hands halted and he placed kisses on her neck and exposed shoulder and chest, sighing softly as she held onto him with one hand on his shoulder and the other buried in his hair.

“What if someone comes in?”

“No one will.”

The door clicked open and the two froze,

“Nephew.”

“Un-uncle,” Siddgeir stuttered, still holding onto a startled Eydis.

“Once again with a whore on your lap, when will you learn boy, it doesn’t suit you,” Dengeir’s comment wasn’t meet with any kind of acceptance as Siddgeir’s face showed his outrage and Eydis stood from his lap and hissed,

“It didn’t suit you either, _old man_ ,” before moving away from Siddgeir altogether.

Though Siddgeir’s mother had adored Eydis and been the one to orchestrate the little goings-on between them until they figured it out for themselves, she was now gone and Siddgeir was no longer just a relative of the Jarl. His father and uncle were beyond disapproving and took most opportunities to harp on at him about marriage but he didn’t dare ask for any blessing to marry Eydis, knowing they’d refuse. In turn, he refused any other woman (publicly, at least) and Eydis would be on his arm at any extravagance. She’d been to Whiterun and Solitude, even the Thalmor Embassy, on the Jarl’s arm and had even sung for the High King once. Those days, however, were behind them.

“What is it, Uncle?”

“Those women-“

“Came looking for work, no harm meant,” Siddgeir sighed, tired of his uncle’s suspicion of anyone and anything, “I sent them after some mead, we could do with some fresh faces round here…especially when the dead outnumber us.” It was well known to Eydis that Siddgeir detested the graveyard, not so much out of lack of respect but it made the young man afraid of his mortality. She couldn’t blame him too much, a fear of death was a sensible thing to have if perhaps a little un-nord like. She knew full well that it was certainly something Solaf would have scoffed at with a shake of the head.

“Perhaps they can do some work for you,” Eydis suggested, leaning on the wooden frame of the Longhouse, “I’m sure you have plenty for them to do with all these spies around.”

“Eydis, please,” Siddgeir hissed but he was ignored. Dengeir left with a noise of indignation and a glare at the two of them, slamming the door as he went. Nenya looked over and shook her head at the two of them, Siddgeir waving his hand in dismissal.

“You really sent them all the way to Riften?” Eydis asked, standing up straight from where she leant.

“If they have any sense they’ll go to Solaf, he’s no loyal seller,” Siddgeir remarked, slouching in his chair, “or subject.”

“Siddgeir,” Eydis sighed, “Solaf is a good man, he’s honest if nothing else.” This had been the wrong thing to say. His blue eyes glittered with menace as he stood, advancing on Eydis who did not dare run from him. Strong hands gripped her wrists and brought her hands up to chest height.

“I’d like to remind you, I have no qualms having you tied to this post and left for all to see,” Siddgeir hissed, “so watch your tongue.” He pulled Eydis closer to him and kissed her harshly, holding onto her tighter and tighter the harder she tried to pull away. Eventually, he let her go and dismissed her, telling her to find some other company.

Eydis found herself in Falkreath’s extensive graveyard, standing over the stone that marked where her father lay. A veteran of the great war, he had succumbed to a wound he’d earnt years earlier when a fearsome Elven Battlemage had broken into the jail, he watched over to rescue one of her comrades. Eydis had been little more than a baby when she had no father at all and her mother too had left the world by the time Eydis had turned ten, leaving her in the care of her older brother, Bjarne.

“A valiant warrior, your father was,” Runil said from across the Graveyard, coming to meet the Nord woman.

“He killed lots of your kind, kept them prisoner and had them tortured too – you don’t need to feel any sympathy for him because you are a Priest.” Guilt sang at Eydis as she dismissed the Priest’s comfort but she meant it, she didn’t believe he should have to do his duty considerin the things Fjrold Dragontamer had done to High Elven and Wood Elven folk.

“Yet, you call that High Elven Battlemage fearsome, do you not?” Runil asked, a twinkle in his aged eyes, “it’s not sympathy or duty, Lady Eydis, but respect.” Eydis bowed her head and held herself where she stood. Behind the High Elf, she could see herself, little more than a child, being chased around by a laughing Bolund while Bjarne and Solaf spoke of the slowly growing discontent, the Bear of Markarth at its head. Now Solaf walked with a limp, Bolund no longer smiled while Bjarne was nowhere to be found. How times had changed.


	11. The Age of Aggression XI - Martolode

Martolode lifted her hand, signalling for Lydia to halt as they approached the final bandit in the lair Siddgeir had sent them to clear out. First, it had been mead, then they’d raided an old cave for the journal of the Altmer priest, broke into the blacksmith's house and now Siddgeir had sent them to an old mine. The leader of this hoard seemed none the wiser to the destruction of the men and women who followed her, ensured by quick arrows and slashes of swords.

Martolode readied another, leaving it most slack in her hand for now as they crept ever closer to the woman. Perhaps she was mad. She muttered to herself as she worked on the fire, Martolode sure she heard Siddgeir’s name come up. Deeming herself close enough and with adequate vision of the small gap under the helmet, Martolode drew back the bow. A short nod to Lydia and she let it go, hitting just to the left of where she had planned. However, the intended effect was still had and the mine was clear.

Before leaving, Martolode rummaged around the table that hadn’t been too far away from the now-dead bandit. She took their money with little hesitation and read through the letters and documents on the table. One caught her eye in particular.

“I think we’ll take this back to Siddgeir,” Martolode remarked, picking up the tattered piece, “wouldn’t be too good if it was discovered.”

“What is it,” Lydia asked, investigating the two chests and recusing the Elven arrows that must have been taken from dead Thalmor.

“His written agreement with them,” Martolode sighed, shaking her head, “surely, it would make sense not to have a written agreement with a hoard of bandits.”

“His intelligence doesn’t inspire much, Thane,” Lydia remarked, holding out the arrows to Martolode, “I suggest we bathe when we return, we’re covered in blood.”

After a bath and a good night’s rest, Martolode went to the Longhouse alone, let in by the Altmer Nenya. Siddgeir sat where he usually did, slouched, as always, while Helvard sat near the door. The addition this time was the silver-haired woman leaning on the wooden support that kept the Longhouse up. It was the same woman who had handed Martolode the black-briar mead who now stood, leaning on the support with her eyes closed.

“I thought you might like this back,” Martolode tried not to smile, “it’s a written agreement with the group, they’re all dead now.” Siddgeir leant forward and took the tattered piece of paper from Martolode. His eyes went wide and he scrunched the paper up, waving at her to move and threw the paper into the fire. What he perhaps didn’t have in smarts certainly was made up for in the fact he’d thrown a light piece of paper with such precision.

Martolode left the Longhouse with a new sword, which she fixed to her side with a little piece of pride. She’d found the axe given to her by Balgruuf awkward for her to handle and so only made use of it while in Whiterun, strapping it to her back, but this sword felt lightweight and easy on the hand. Typical of Elven weapons. She had been offered a Housecarl too but merely agreed to pay her wages, wishing to keep Lydia by her side.

The Breton and the Nord made their way to Dead Man’s Drink, another of Falkreath’s play on words and their own situation and certainly a contradiction in itself, the Tavern very much alive. A Breton bard sang while another Breton danced about drunkenly, a mage judging by the simple black robes that seemed to give off an entirely different aura. The workers of the town sat around the tables along the walls or around the firepit, drinking their ale and eating while the High Elven priest sat quietly in the corner, watching everyone with his old twinkling eyes. For a priest of the dead, he seemed to love the living.

Martolode and Lydia disappeared upstairs to the room they had paid for, Martolode clutching a bundle she’d acquired beforehand. She untied the string and pulled the cover away from the green dress she’d bought, complete with a red piece to go over the top. It didn’t take long to get on but she stood looking at herself in the mirror for a while.

“Does…does it look alright?” Martolode asked Lydia, turning again to look at the dress.

“It looks fine, Thane,” Lydia sighed, “and if I may be so bold, please stop asking.” Martolode huffed and adjusted where the dress had wrinkled with her turning. Dresses ought not to have been so foreign to her, it wasn’t long ago that they’d been all she wore but she hadn’t had a new dress since she stopped growing. The one she’d borrowed from the Mill owner, like this one, was made for Nord women who were taller and hadn’t fit well. This one was intended to be shorter, and thus, fell to her ankles and hid the boots well enough. Knowing it wasn’t going to get any better, the two made their way downstairs.

“Dierfi!” The drunken mage cried, pulling up some of his hair to reveal his own pointed ears, “deyd ma! Conash tu?” Martolode was taken aback, hearing her language again – albeit it a little slurred.

“Yeyn da, hay tu?” Martolode smiled as the Breton man came to her, his drunken state making him very much unafraid to put an arm around her waist and stand at her side, swaying her a little and pushing Lydia out of the picture.

“Yeyn, yeyn,” the man laughed, “Conash enneym tu?”

“Martolode, hay tu?” Martolode grinned, lost in her little world with the Breton man. She had her grievances about High Rock, but there was something magical about being surrounded only by your own words.

“Sam,” the man grinned, passing her a mug from the bar, “en Martolod?”

“Nei, nei, en seyjak, tha mi a es Reach,” Martolode smiled, a sailor, as if she would ever be a sailor. The man grimaced and helped her drink what was in the mug. He understood, he knew what The Reach was like. Martolode laughed again as he challenged her to a drinking contest but had no time to reply.

“Thane, that man,” Lydia whispered in her ear, nodding to the Nord from the mill, “be careful.” She took the mug from Martolode when she handed it to her and the Breton detached herself from the mage, smiling at him before slipping away from him. Bitterness filled her but she pressed it down somewhere else in her mind, deciding to enjoy herself and listen to the Bard and the chatter.

Falkreath had grown on Martolode and defied expectations. It felt good to be here. Despite the suspicions some of the residents carried about them, it was a pleasant town and although it made her think of home Martolode was glad to have completed her journey. It wasn’t the first hold capital she’d set foot, as it should have been, but the soft rustle of the trees and ever-constant rain were more welcoming than the hustle and bustle of Whiterun.

“Ah, the Dragontamer!” Sam cried, “she appears at last and with her man in tow,” the Breton bowed low, “Jarl.” Martolode’s head snapped up at the mention of the Dragontamer to see the silver-haired woman and Jarl Siddgeir in the door. The silver-haired woman had a real smile on her face and left Siddgeir where he stood, standing up on the chair so she towered over the Breton bard and had all eyes on her.

“Ithguloir,” the Breton bard suggested to her, she nodded to him and pulled back her hair with her hands as she began to sing. Martolode held back her laugh, the song bringing back memories of her childhood. Joining in with her mother, singing the song in Bretonic of course, as they worked the fields gathering crops during harvest. The Tamrielic wasn’t quite right but it was close enough and the Dragontamer’s playful expressions to go along with the song even brought a smile from the Millworker.

All sorts came from the Dragontamer, a raucous drinking melody that everyone joined in with to the hero who would save them all from the dragons. All the time she stood upon the chair, all eyes on her, a wild grin on her face. She didn’t need the mugs or the wine others drank, only to stand upon the chair and sing her heart out. Admirable, some might say.

Slowly, she was lifted down by the Jarl, no one there to judge him and anyone who might too drunk to consider doing it, holding the woman to him. He gave her a wine glass, holding her waist with that hand with the other held a drink for himself. A silence began to fall so they stole quick whispers in each other’s ears, smiling. The Dragontamer feigned offence at something he said, smiling as finally silence fell over the Tavern.

The Breton bard began to play The Age of Aggression on his lute, watching the couple who still clung to one another. The mill worker grumbled and made to leave but was grabbed and pulled back to his seat by his brother. The Dragontamer lifted her cup a little.

_We drink to our youth, for the day’s come and gone  
The Age of Aggression is just about done_

_We’ll drive out the Stormcloaks and restore what we own  
With our blood and our steel, we will take back our home_

The Dragontamer’s voice was soft as she sang the opening lines and her eyes scanned the people around her, avoiding the two brothers.

 _Down with Ulfric, the killer of Kings!_  
_On the day of your death, we will drink and we’ll sing_  
_We’re the children of Skyrim and we fight all our lives_  
_And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies_  
  
_But this land is ours and we’ll see it wiped clean_  
_Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams_

Her eyes closed as she held the notes and she seemed to go elsewhere. An old memory perhaps. Then her eyes opened once more and her voice was alive and defiant, the Jarl barely able to hold onto her.

 _Down with Ulfric, the killer of Kings!_  
_On the day of your death, we will drink and we’ll sing_  
_We’re the children of Skyrim and we fight all our lives_  
_And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies_

She quietened once more, lifting her untouched wine glass to the patriots of the bar.

_We drink to our youth, though the day’s come and gone  
The Age of Aggression is just about done_

The Dragontamer had more than ruffled a few feathers, the mill worker bristling with anger, his brother forcing him back while some in the tavern shuffled from foot to foot. Others looked upon her with admiration, the priest the only one with a sense of sadness. Even drunken Sam had fallen silent and stood with his mug suspended in mid-air, eyes only for the Dragontamer. The people began to disperse, and the Jarl left the woman be, his wine on a table and out of the door. Leaving her.

She went to follow him and finally, the shopkeeper let his brother go, going out after the bard. Martolode’s quick glance to Lydia had them following, staying out of sight in the dark. Watching the mill worker pursue the bard until she turned and froze him solid with the ferocity in her eyes. Though his feet stayed where they stood, his voice did not suffer so.

“Traitor,” he called her, “that’s what you are.”

“Times have changed Bolund, we’re not the children we once were,” the Dragontamer snapped, “I don’t find your words and beliefs so enticing anymore.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“You’re awfully talkative, leave me be!”

There was a slap and roar and the Dragontamer raced past them, closely pursued by Bolund. His brother appeared from the Tavern not a moment later and his keen eyes spotted Martolode and Lydia easily.

“Eydis? Where’s Eydis?” He demanded, grabbing Martolode by the shoulders, “where’d they go?”

“Towards the Longhouse,” Lydia answered, pulling Martolode from the man’s grip. He turned and left them and it was only when he was gone from sight that they pursued.

The older brother had grabbed ahold of the younger, holding him back with some difficulty, warning him.  
“If you go in there, Siddgeir will dig up every single thing you’ve done,” he grunted as his brother attempted to kick him, hitting his bad leg but he didn’t let go, “all of it. He’ll find a way to make sure you never see the light of day again.” The brother still did not calm, until the Altmer appeared from the Longhouse, holding the door shut. She cast a spell upon the Nord and he became dormant.

“Take him home, Solaf,” Nenya sighed, “before we find any more trouble.”

Before the man could so much as try and drag his brother back, the ground began to shake, and a screeching roar sounded. A great shadow descended upon the town, knocking the brothers to the floor and making Martolode stumble, being held up by Lydia.

“Dragon!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the Conversation  
> Sister! Hello! How are you?  
> I’m good, and you?  
> Good, good, what’s your name? (Literally How name you?)  
> Martolode, and you?  
> Sam. A sailor?  
> No, no, a farmer, from the Reach  
> There’s no Bretonic language that’s been constructed, it’s mostly Elven languages and ancient languages like Dovahzul that are well constructed, so I built this from messing around with phrases and spelling in Irish and Breton and a couple other Celtic languages. The Bretons are supposed to be Bethesda’s European base, but I wanted to give them a Celtic streak with the language as they’re called Bretons


	12. The Age of Aggression XII - Eydis

The roar above and the cry of Dragon brought everyone from the Tavern, to see the great beast flying over their home. This one was green, not the black shadow she’d heard the Breton Martolode talking about, with a flare of scaly skin around its head. The guards began ushering people inside, forcing them back into the Tavern and demanding that Valga make use of her cellar to protect people. A few remained, armed with bows and arrows and swords, whatever would be of use to fight the beast.

“Eydis,” Siddgeir said, rather shouting as the beast roared, “go, somewhere safe, the kitchens, somewhere,” she could see the panic in his face. He did not want to fight the beast but he would, even occasions that demanded this of him, Siddgeir would rise to. Even with all the people around them, the swooping of wings and the sound of fire being spat, Eydis kissed Siddgeir for as long and as hard as she dared. Her hands clung to the plates on his shoulder, their noses squished together by haste. He then pushed her off, sending her towards the Longhouse.

Reality came to Eydis as the Dragon swooped downwards, missing the Longhouse by mere inches before breathing fire onto the guards' barracks. She found herself on the ground, having been shaken off her feet, quickly scrabbling back and ripping open the doors and clambering down the ladder into the kitchens. The cook was sat, staring into nothing, listening to the commotion above. She ignored him and carried on, back up into the Longhouse.

Empty, all three of its normal residents were out fighting the Dragon. Eydis could only hope for Nenya, that she wouldn’t earn the ire of the already irate residents, magic was a method and it was the one she knew best. Something came over Eydis as she stepped into the bedroom, she and Siddgeir had shared for the past four years. Though the ground shook, she found herself sitting down on his side and looking around the room.

She lifted off the circlet he’d given her as the ground shook, studying the sapphire set in the centre. He’d given to her when he’d promised her that he’d have no one else, even when his family had warned him against it. An old soldiers’ whore, she remembered Dengeir calling her, how charming. Eydis placed the circlet down and stood from the bed, going to her side and retrieving the small dagger she’d always had, along with the coin purse holding the last of her allowance for that month. A knapsack from under the bed held a spare set of clothes and food, nothing much else. Last was the cloak, hanging on the door as she’d left it that afternoon. Brown and woollen, warm on a night that could not be much warmer, Eydis fixed the clasp about her neck and pulled up the hood to hide her silver hair. Another roar sounded as she made for the kitchens once more, shaking the circlet from where it lay, echoing as it hit the floor.

Eydis found herself thrown against the wall of the Longhouse as the dragon swooped overhead and burnt any in its path, barely missing Eydis. Everyone was running in confusion, guards trying to angle bows at the great beast. A clear path around them was almost too good to be true but fighting in the chaos that something about Falkreath would remain easy. Among the guards Eydis searched for Siddgeir, spotting him with a bow and quiver of arrows, finally putting his arms to good use. Eydis hesitated, briefly, and then ran.

Behind houses, the Blacksmith’s and then out of the gate. If anyone had noticed her, they didn’t think to go after her; not that she could blame them with the current predicament. She turned her head once to see the Breton, Martolode, watching her run. She seemed not to care about the beast above, her small chest heaving. Perhaps the rumours were true, the roar had come not from the Dragon but her. No matter, Eydis had little choice but to run into the night.

She didn’t know where she was or how long she’d been running, Eydis knew only the rustling of the trees and the hooting of owls. Silence. Then, a great vanquished roar followed by shaking ground. She turned her back on the road again, Falkreath no longer in sight but the Dragon attacking it surely dead. That was the moment Eydis realised that she was all alone, at least she hoped.

Anything could sneak up on her here, pounce on her and kill her right there. An animal or a human could do it, Falkreath’s roads were plagued with bandits from both Skyrim and Cyrodiil. Men armed with bows, women armed with swords, a wolf’s gnashing teeth or even another dragon, come to avenge its brethren. Eydis pulled the cloak around her, it was cold, so very cold, even for a summer’s night.

A small orange glow in the distance told her it was best to leave, for all she knew it could be guards coming to search for her already. Perhaps Siddgeir had already found her circlet but nothing else of her and assumed she had died or insisted that this orange glow of a guard go looking for her. She had strayed out of fear perhaps, a sensible thing to do. Eydis kept the hood firmly over her head, once again mourning the blonde her hair had once been – it would certainly make her less identifiable, not many women had grey hair at the age of thirty.

 The orange glow continued to follow her along the road but there was no way she could be seen. Perhaps she should try to cross the border in Cyrodiil, she’d heard that life was good there even with the war – not that the civil war had really touched Falkreath, not yet anyway. However, she’d heard of people being turned away at the border too many times and being mistaken by soldiers as rebels and there was that Thalmor guard. Eydis shivered and decided it was best to stay in the clutches of her own country.

Her pause for thought had brought the orange glow closer; closer than she had anticipated and she could even hear footsteps. Two sets, light on their feet. This orange glow was not a couple of guards, no guards were light on their feet however hard they tried. Eydis looked around in the darkness for somewhere to hide, these weren’t guards, they must have been bandits or worse.

“There!” A voice called, Eydis whirling round to see the face of the Breton who had become Thane not hours ago, “Lady Eydis!”

“Don’t take me back there!” Eydis shouted back, holding her hands up, “don’t take me back there,” her voice grew quieter as the woman came to a stop, followed by her Nord housecarl holding the torch Eydis had seen from so far away. The Breton’s face was soft, almost troubled by Eydis’ words. Eydis remained with her hands up, waiting for the Breton to say something, turn back or simply drag her back to Falkreath.

“So, you didn’t run away from the Dragon?” Martolode asked, Eydis shook her head, “you ran from Siddgeir?” Eydis hesitated, that wouldn’t be how she would have phrased but she nodded. Martolode sighed and turned back to look at Falkreath for a moment before turning back.

“We’ll take you to Riverwood and we’ll go back to Falkreath tomorrow, say we couldn’t find you. I know somewhere you can stay and it’s over the border in Whiterun hold, so Siddgeir has no power there,” Martolode grimaced, “come, before they send others who might catch up.”

“Why are you helping me?” Eydis asked, realising as she walked alongside her that she was almost a head taller than Martolode.

“He might be paying me a wage, but I can’t say I’m terribly keen on your Jarl,” Martolode answered, a small shrug, “there’s something about him that I don’t like and leaving everything to Nenya, he’s not very good at his job.”

“Don’t think too harshly of Siddgeir,” Eydis sighed, unable to shake off the four years in one night, “he didn’t want to be Jarl, Dengeir might seem like a mad old man but he’s right. Siddgeir is Jarl because he panders to the Imperials, perhaps a little too much, but don’t be fooled; Siddgeir disregards even himself if it means he’s got a peaceful life.” Martolode made a noise that seemed to mean a change of heart about the man, though she was thoroughly unconvinced.

“Forgive me, but I’m not all with the idea of someone merely pandering to the Imperials, there might have been talk of Ulfric allying himself with my home country when he’s done with Skyrim but until then, I’m not welcome.” Martolode’s voice was devoid of very much at all and she walked along with her head held high, the elven sword at her side and pointed ears poking out through black hair. Eydis could barely see her in the dark but she was quickly ahead by a couple of paces, little regard for others around her.

The silence persisted as they passed the burning ruins of Helgen, already taken over by bandits, that sent a shiver down the Breton’s spine. Eydis watched her as she stared at the gates. Odd, she can’t have been from there. The only foreigners in Helgen were the Imperials soldiers, they didn’t bring their families with them.

“I almost met my end there,” Martolode explained, “mistaken for some rebel, I was supposed to be delivering produce to Falkreath, oddly enough, perhaps I would have met you earlier.”

“I don’t agree with Ulfric if that’s what you were hinting at before,” Eydis snapped, surprising the Breton who even stopped walking and turned around to look at her, “you heard me. I did once, I’ve got my connections to him and his cause but they’re old, even ancient. I don’t know what you Bretons are like but not all Nords are bound to their family names.”


	13. The Age of Aggression XIII - Hadvar

The morning sun shone down with a pleasant heat, not too hot but enough to warm a man in armour in a comfortable way. Hadvar had remained in Riverwood over the weeks that followed, Tullius still unaware he was even alive had given him an excuse to stay at home for a little longer. He would go back eventually before they found him, but to remain in the comfort of his own home for a little longer was no crime. Tullius would understand.

“Heard anything from the Breton woman?” Alvor asked, mopping sweat from his brow as he came to stand beside his nephew, he’d been working in the forge since the sun rose, a quota to meet and money coming in from the Jarl himself. Hadvar shook his head, sitting himself down on the steps up to the forge, pulling one of the mountain flowers that grew underneath and plucking off the petals one by one, “think that’s about to change.”

Hadvar lifted his head at his uncle’s words to see Martolode walking under the bridge, accompanied by two Nord women. He recognised one from the brief moment she had passed through on her way to Falkreath – closure, she’d called it – her housecarl, Lydia. The other was wrapped in a woollen cloak despite the heat of the morning and had silver hair that didn’t match the young face it surrounded. Soft brown eyes seemed to regard the little town with wonder as if they had never seen anywhere else.

“Martolode,” Hadvar called, standing up, “it’s good to see you!” Martolode stopped and smiled, saying something to the other women before going up to Hadvar.

“It’s good to see you too,” Martolode smiled, her shoulders had dropped and she was almost at ease. Lydia was more interested in her surroundings than the conversation while the silver-haired woman fiddled with the clasp on her cloak, “Hadvar, this is Eydis, she needed to come somewhere safe.”

“So, you chose here, you strange woman,” Hadvar laughed, though it was cut short by Martolode’s face remaining unchanged, “how about we go inside, you look tired and hungry.”

Inside, over bread and cheese, Martolode explained what was really going on. Eydis didn’t say a word, preferring to stay silent, though she winced every now and then. Hadvar pondered the story for a moment, no doubt in his mind that it was true. Martolode wasn’t the type to lie. He was more concerned with what he was to do, surely, there was something.

“I…I could take you to Solitude, Eydis,” Hadvar suggested, Martolode frowning at him, “I need to report back to General Tullius anyway, he doesn’t even know I’m alive. Have you met Jarl Elisif?” Eydis nodded, “she’ll be of more help than anyone when it comes to Siddgeir.”

Martolode stood from the table, wobbling a little,

“Well, I suppose that’s that, I need to go back to Falkreath.”

“Martolode you need sleep,” Hadvar shook his head, “all three of you need sleep, stay with us or in the Sleeping Giant.”

“You did say, Siddgeir has no jurisdiction here,” this was the first time Eydis spoke up, her voice was soft and the rugged Nordic that came from her lips was oddly soothing, “he won’t come looking for me here, he’s far from a friend to Balgruuf.” Constant Tamrielic seemed to have wiped the sounds of his own language from his mind, even if he’d spoken Nordic and only Nordic since his return. Utterly entranced, it was only Martolode’s concerned eyes that caught Hadvar.

“That’s true,” he coughed, sitting up, “even if it’s right on the border between the two holds, Siddgeir can’t do anything, I suppose we’re lucky that he’s no friend of Balgruuf.” Martolode let out a puff of air and relented, agreeing that she’d stay. She tossed some money to Lydia, told her to take Eydis to the Sleeping Giant and for both of them to get some rest.

“And what will you do?” Hadvar asked once the two had gone.

“I’m going hunting,” Martolode snapped, “I don’t have as much money as a Thane should, I spent it all on that house.”

“You have a house?” Hadvar questioned, getting a smile from Martolode, the woman seemed miserable and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. This meeting had reminded him, rather bitterly, that he did not actually know the woman. What she had spilt about herself on the way back from Helgen was all he knew, and it wasn’t much. Still, she was someone he’d call a friend.

“I do, in Whiterun,” Martolode sighed, “Siddgeir offered me land as well but I’ve got no energy to build a house.”

“Not with this being Dragonborn, eh?” Hadvar grinned. Martolode stood up straight,

“Where did you hear about that?”

“Word gets around here fast, around this hold anyway,” Hadvar’s grin had turned to a smile, “was it your Ma or your Pa?” This got him a laugh from the Breton woman, and a roll of the eyes to accompany it.

“ _Matre_ , probably, nothing could stop that woman and she definitely isn’t all Breton,” Martolode had a grin on her face, “although, apparently Tiber Septim was a Breton, no one seems to agree on that one.”

“I’d be careful saying that,” Hadvar shook his head, still smiling, “not everyone takes kindly to that, not got anyone else in your family line?” Martolode chewed on her bottom lip, mulling over what she was going to say most likely. Her hands flittered around, on the clasp on her shoulder, her chest, into her hair.

“Well, I’m related to the Hero of Kvatch,” she mumbled quietly.

“You told us you weren’t important enough to have a family name!” Hadvar protested, unable to tell if the little Breton woman was trying to fool him, “and the rumours, everyone knows the rumours. That’d make you a Septim – that’d make you Empress, or well, a Princess at least.” Martolode shook her head swiftly, shushing him.

“No one knows if those rumours are true, and if they were, they’d have killed off my family line quicker than you can say _Leim hain_. Anyway, the Hero of Kvatch had other lovers before she disappeared and they’re only rumours, Hadvar, rumours are never true.”

“Say what?” Hadvar asked.

“It’s a game Breton children play,” Martolode smiled, glad he had changed the subject, “we write out one to ten, _cea fas dei_ , and jump on them. Passes the time while the adults decide who to invade next.”

Silence came for a moment, Martolode returning to her arrows, checking them for ones that wouldn’t be fit for hunting, having stolen some from an ambitious bandit on the road. Hadvar sat back down, picking up the ring Eydis had been fiddling with, leaving it on the table as a mere commodity. It was well made, likely commissioned to a blacksmith, not unlike his Uncle and materials hard to find in wartime ordered in. She was odd, coming from somewhere she was waited on hand and foot; yet she’d chosen to leave. He’d heard her name before, suspected he’d heard her sing, but he’d never seen her. The tall, slender woman with silver hair had perhaps not been who he had expected.

Martolode laughing at him brought him from his thoughts, leaving him a little startled, he looked up at her. She merely shook her head and disappeared from the house, leaving him where he sat with the ring still held between his thumb and index finger. Once the Breton was gone, he stood and made his way to the inn. The least he could do was return the ring to the woman.

She hadn’t gone to rest yet, quite the opposite, she had become more animated as she chattered with Sven. They sang a line together and descended in laughter, Eydis’ hand on his arm. Faendal, the town’s resident Elf, watched them closely with an eagerness. Noticing Hadvar, he got up and came to stand next to him, whistling low.

“Looks like you’ve missed this one, Nord,” Faendal commented, quietly, “we can’t all win.”

“And you’ve won, have you, Elf?” Hadvar hissed back, the ring clutched in his hand, returned with silence, “I thought as much.” _Be brave, Hadvar, you’re in the army – you can give her the ring back_. Hadvar coughed, aware of Faendal watching him as he went up to Eydis. He coughed again and the Bard turned to him, with a swirl of her cloak and flutter of her silver hair.

“You, er, you left this,” Hadvar caught himself mumbling, he could hear Faendal laugh behind him as he held the ring out to Eydis. She stifled a laugh, glancing at Sven’s mortified face, taking the ring from Hadvar and thanked him. Glancing at Sven again, with a smile on her face, she placed her hands on Hadvar’s shoulder and pretended she had to pull herself up to place a swift kiss on his cheek. Faendal stopped snickering.

“A sweetheart, Eydis?” Sven grinned, though his grin smaller and less enthusiastic, “you do surprise me, last I heard-”

“Sven, may I advise you to stop talking,” Eydis warned, quickly removing her hands from Hadvar’s shoulder, “that’s not information I wish to be widespread.” Sven nodded, pulling a face, but his eyes still flicked between the two of them, “it was a joke, Sven,” Eydis groaned, “do grow up.”

Hadvar took his chance and stole the bard away from Sven, taking her to one of the small tables, intent on mapping out the route to Solitude with her. Eydis sat and listened intently, following his finger as he ran it along the map, hearing every word of warning he gave her. He couldn’t help but smile at her eagerness, he almost fell to the initial reaction to suggest she join the legion – it had practically been beaten into him to mention at this point – but relented. It likely wouldn’t suit a bard.

“You sure you’ll manage, it’s a long way.”

“I ran from Falkreath to Windhelm once, I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll have to tell me that one on the road, _Eydis_.”


	14. In Search of Solace I - Erla

The tiny Bosmer woman grumbled as she leant on her stall, most of her produce was gone but there was still some left and she never liked to leave before it was all gone. It was all fresh, what would keep she sent to another Bosmer in Whiterun to sell for a higher price than she sold for. As long as she could make her own arrows and maintain a bow, it would turn a profit. Still, the basement of the clothes shop was starting to become a little tiresome.

“What have you got today, Erla,” asked a voice, Erla out of her daydream to see Addvar, another vendor and a fisherman. They had made a deal when Erla had popped up in Solitude ten years ago, she wouldn’t sell any fish if he wouldn’t branch out to sell meat as well. It had been an easy deal, both offering a discount to one another.

“Take your pick Addvar, anything for you and your family,” Erla smiled, not lifting her head from her hand, “I know things are tough.” Her eyes did not look at Addvar, however, but at the Altmer man stood against the wall across the path. Erla knew she had nothing to fear from Thalmor, not that he looked like one anyway, but he irked her. The only Altmer in Solitude were the two women she lived with and the occasional ambassador. A silent night time break into their Headquarters, suspicious of activity, had revealed to Erla that their headquarters in the city were empty.

“Odd isn’t he,” Addvar commented, lowering his voice, “been there all day, not doing anything, seems to take an interest in you.” Erla grimaced,

“I could do without another Erikur.”

“Are the laws the same in the dominion?” Addvar asked, inspecting a piece, “about Bosmer and other races.”

“No one likes it,” Erla answered, her eyes still on the man, his eyes had now drifted to her, “but it’s not illegal, Altmer don’t like mixing, not right now anyway. Bosmer are a little…freer.”

“I hear there’s more of you than any other Elves in Tamriel,” Addvar continued, making his selection and taking out a coin purse, “well, good luck with your admirer.” He paid Erla, who still did not look away from the Altmer man, leaving her. The Altmer man did not move, his tall body staying against the wall with his arms folded. He was a normal Altmer, Erla couldn’t shake that he felt familiar though she was sure she’d never seen his face before. He moved.

“Done staring?” Erla snapped, deciding she’d keep what was left, cook it up for Taarie, Endarie and herself. The Altmer shook his head, smiling at the Bosmer and her attention dragged elsewhere by two Nords as they left the Bards’ College, the woman excitable and laughing. The man simply watched her, completely enamoured.

“Sweet, aren’t they, they’ve been in the city all day – the woman even spoke to the Jarl,” the Altmer remarked, stretching, “apparently she’s the Dragontamer.” Erla looked at him with a bewildered expression, that meant nothing to her. She’d heard rumours of a Dragonborn, but she was a Breton and it was only rumours. The Altmer almost laughed.

“Why have you been stood there all day?” Erla asked, dropping down to unlock her stall and pull out the strongbox, “you’re not a Thalmor agent are you?” She’d meant the question in jest and so was taken aback when the Altmer seemed to become enraged. His brow furrowed deeply and his golden eyes had fire in them,

“Don’t accuse me of such.”

“Then what are you here for?” Erla asked, the strongbox firmly under her arm and the other hand on her side, resting above the glass dagger on her hip. Her bow was tucked away in Taarie’s basement, she decided then that she would begin bringing it with her. The Altmer’s face softened,

“How about we discuss that over a drink? I’m Adanach,” he even smiled, “odd name, I know, not very Altmer like. Come, that couple has gone into the Winking Skeever, the woman must be able to sing if she’s who we think she is.”

“Erla,” the Bosmer woman responded, “perhaps, go, if I want to I will meet you there.”

“I’m sure I’ll see you, Lady Balatar,” Adanach smiled before turning his back and walking towards the Winking Skeever with the same efficiency all Altmer’s walked with. Perhaps it was their long legs. Erla did not move, staring after him. He must have been a Thalmor, there was no other way he could have known her surname. The name that carried enough weight to bring even the most powerful to their knees. At least, she could hope that he was surprised to see a daughter of the family trying to make ends meet in Skyrim.

“Here,” Erla smiled, placing the wrapped meat beside the oven in Endarie and Taarie’s home, “for the both of you.”

“Just us?” Taarie questioned, “are you going somewhere?”

“Skeever, it’s been…it’s been a long day, you’re welcome to join me,” Erla smiled, hoping they wouldn’t. Thankfully Taarie shook her head, leaving Erla to go free. She wasn’t quite sure what had compelled her to go, perhaps she wanted to investigate the couple, but something told her otherwise. Before she could leave, Endaarie grabbed her arm,

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she hissed before letting the Bosmer go.

The Skeever was alive with music, the woman she had seen leaving the bard’s college was now centre stage, if it could be called that, with Lisette at her side. They were singing a song Erla didn’t know and she searched around for Adanach, finding him in the corner with a bottle of spiced wine just waiting for her. Her eyes flicked to the bard, and then the soldier diligently watching her, as she made her way across the room to sit with the Altmer.

“Sweet, aren’t they,” Adanach smiled, “she’s been singing none stop, all sorts of things, Cyrodillic songs, Nordic ballads, she even threw in a couple from High Rock.”

“Well-travelled or well educated,” Erla remarked, pouring herself some wine, “nothing from Valenwood, not that we put our songs on display.”

“Fine, keep your secrets,” Adanach laughed, even getting a laugh from Erla as her eyes drifted back to the bard. The silver-haired Nord was now dancing with the Breton bard who had made the skeever her territory, yet here was utterly overwhelmed and engrossed in the silver-haired woman and everything she did. Between verses her wild laughter filled the air, pulling in others around her, while others went to take her arm and dance with her. All the while, the soldier watched, smiling.

“So, this deal of yours, what is it?” Erla asked, “no one who knows a name like mine doesn’t want something in return.”

“Companionship,” the High Elf was blunt and forward, Erla’s eyes flicking back from the soldier. Strange one, High Elves were normally masters of the tongue – something both they and the Bretons had inherited from the Aldmer – but this one was far too blunt. Erla studied his face for lies, for something that might suggest he wanted more than that.

“I intend to travel around Skyrim,” Adanach explained himself, “I’ve been looking for a huntress, like yourself, who would help provide an income and knew the roads well.” Erla gave him a haughty laugh in response,

“Me? Little Erla knowing the roads?” She laughed again, “it’s hardly safe for me to go and hunt with all these Stormcloaks crawling around, even here. I can’t imagine they take kindly to you, where have you come from anyway, Thalmor boats haven’t come here for months.”

“I’m good at hiding,” Adanach smiled, Erla watching as he tapped his foot, his head bowing as he smiled, a little pink in his golden cheeks, “I know, I know, hard to believe with all of me.”

“How tall are you?” Erla asked, curiosity had pulled her entirely from the bard, no longer aware of the woman.

“22 hands, yourself?”

“Ha! 16, I must barely reach your shoulder,” Erla grinned, “you’re awfully tall, I’ve not met many Altmer as tall as you.”

“I am…beyond most of my race,” Adanach smiled, still bashful, “most of the males are around 20 hands, the females 18. At least Bosmer women are normal among humans, we Altmer stick out like sore thumbs.” Erla shook her head,

“Normal? My skin is tinged with the green of my homeland, any assuming bastard might think of me as some kind of Orismer Hybrid which I most certainly am not. Pure Bosmer.”

“Is that so?” Adanach questioned, suspicion in his orange eyes. Erla’s own brown turned darker and she considered Adanach with the same suspicion she had at her stall,

“It is so.”

The bard had grown tired, Erla watched her as she traversed the inn and went to sit beside her soldier, who had watched her with a smile on his face for all the time she’d been in the spotlight. Lisette followed them briefly, embracing the bard before returning to her post to wait on requests. The bard and soldier did not dare touch one another, at least with no intention, occasionally their knees would touch where they sat, and the bard would jump away. How sweet.

“Is there any particular place you have in mind,” Erla asked, “Skyrim isn’t a big place, not that Valenwood and the Isles are much bigger.”

“Winterhold,” Adanach answered simply, his eyes had not softened as Erla’s had and he was still regarding her with suspicion, but she ignored him. She knew her heritage, she knew it all too well. At this, excitement came over her and she forgot the bard once more.

“Winterhold? As in, for the college?” She tried to keep the excitement down but the intonation on her question went too high, her leg almost bumping the table as it jumped. Adanach even smiled as he nodded. Erla restrained herself, coughing and holding her leg still with one hand, she glanced at the bard and soldier, watching the bard as she went for her bed, the soldier staying, “I’ll be just a moment.”

Erla got up from the table, turning her back on Adanach, taking a ring out of the small satchel sown onto her dress. She tapped the soldier lightly on the shoulder, making him jump and turn around. She offered him a smile and the ring, placing it into the palm of his hand, “it’s enchanted to fortify health,” she whispered, the tavern now lulled with no excitement and Lisette lazily strumming, “I’m sure you’ll find use for it.” She kept her smile as she got up, leaving the bewildered soldier, and returning to Adanach, “I’ll come with you.”

“Excellent!”

“On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You help me enrol at the college.”

“Deal.”


	15. The Age of Aggression XIV - Eydis

Eydis felt her head pulse as they approached the quaint town Martolode had brought her to; they had run out of water just as they’d left Whiterun but a sabre cat and mumblings about where sewage went meant they’d just hoped for the best. Seeing Riverwood was somehow more welcoming than it had been the last, despite the pain she smiled as she watched the plume of smoke coming from the blacksmith’s forge.

“To think I have to do it all again,” Hadvar grumbled, he’d been informed by Tullius that he was to make his way to Hjaalmarch in a week, “I’ll have to take enough water, or be brave about sabre cats.” Eydis smiled, a dull ache behind her eyes making it too difficult to laugh. They were closer, getting closer by the second, sweet release from aching feet and parched throats. Then they stopped.

“Ralof?” Hadvar asked, “is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” a rough voice informed them, “you traitorous bastard.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you – ” Hadvar was cut off by the growling voice of Ralof.

“Died? I almost did,” Ralof snapped, “the people I was trying to escape with were crushed by the falling ceiling.” Eydis glanced at Hadvar, looking for some explanation, he seemed to have become more alert than he was a moment ago. The two knew each other – perhaps they were childhood friends, “you’re not the girl.”

This was addressed directly to Eydis, who took a step back, partially hiding behind Hadvar. What girl? Who? Hadvar reached a hand back for Eydis to take, which she did, a soft squeeze pressing her fingers together.

“No, she’s not Martolode,” Hadvar sighed, “what do you want, Ralof?”

“Pity, I hear she’s heading for great things,” Ralof sighed, “imagine that, a Dragonborn on ou-”

“She’s joined the Legion, don’t get cocky,” Hadvar interrupted, giving Eydis’s hand another squeeze, “what do you want?”

“A conversation with an old friend,” Ralof gritted his teeth and turned away from them, making his way towards the mill. Hadvar neither let go nor moved until he had disappeared around the corner towards Hod and Gerdur’s house. Slowly, he let go of Eydis and carried on down the path, in complete silence. Eydis watched him for just a moment, the way his shoulders hunched and head bowed. She sighed and followed.

“That was…tense,” Eydis commented as she came into the house, Hadvar sitting himself down at his aunt and uncle’s table, lounging across two seats as a handful of his joints clicked. Sigrid appeared from downstairs and frowned at them. Her footsteps followed as she marched up and stood over Hadvar, her fingers drumming on folded elbows. Waiting for an answer.

“He found us outside,” Hadvar’s voice broke mid-sentence and he went scarlet, “all okay now.” He couldn’t seem to bring himself to look at Eydis as his aunt loomed over him. Then, Sigrid simply huffed and stepped away from Hadvar. She dropped her arms by her side and went to Eydis, smiling at her.

“Good journey? I trust my nephew didn’t cause you too much trouble?”

“If anything, I was the one causing trouble, perhaps I over-indulged a little bit in my time at the college while we were in Solitude,” Eydis coughed out a laugh, smiling, her eyes on Hadvar rather than Sigrid. Hadvar waved his hand in dismissal and deemed it safe enough to close his eyes. Eydis couldn’t stop her smile. The time she’d spent with the soldier had taught her that he was most peaceful with his eyes closed but not sleeping – it gave him time to breathe, to think and to live.

Martolode appeared an hour or so later, having been to Falkreath and now wanting to make her way back to Whiterun. She still seemed mellow and miserable, Eydis didn’t know her as anything else and perhaps she wasn’t anything else. Still, she smiled at them, wished them well and went on her way. She’d acquired some glass arrows this time and there were mumblings about how she had found them, some dealings with the Thalmor laced into the talk.

“Martolode,” Eydis smiled, she had walked the Breton and her housecarl to the edge of town, “thank you, for taking me away from there.”

“Siddgeir is beside himself,” Martolode sighed, “I don’t think he realises what he’s done.” Eydis shook her head,

“They never do.”

“Stick with Hadvar and his family, they’re good people,” Martolode smiled, patting Eydis’s arm, “even if Sigrid has a Dragon’s temper.” Eydis laughed, even getting a proper grin from Martolode. The Breton took her by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks, “I’ll see you soon.” Then, she and Lydia departed for Whiterun. Eydis remained for a moment, watching them.

With staying long term looking likely, Eydis went up to the mill. Sven had called it work, but she could only see the wood elf there. She’d hear them bickering on the night she arrived, over the merchant’s sister, only just resisting a little giggle at them. Raucous laughter had alerted a highwayman to their presence when Hadvar had recounted the wood chopping incident that had ended in Faendal being chased around by Sven, armed with a split log.

“Looking for a job?” Asked a voice. It was a woman’s and Eydis only had to turn to see a stout woman, not far off her age, stood beside her. Eydis gave a hesitant nod. This woman reminded her of Anghilde, a Stormcloak who had been amongst the ranks when Eydis had. She towered overall, even some of the men, and was the fiercest warrior Eydis had ever known. She could only hope she was still alive.

“If you can chop wood, grab an axe and start,” the woman smiled, “if not, Faendal will show you technique. He might be grumpy but he doesn’t bite.” She  paused and looked over her mill before changing her mind and calling, “Ralof!”

The same man who had met them at the gate lifted his head as he bellowed a “what” at her. Gerdur, as her name had been revealed to be, glared at him as she marched across. Eydis following her gesture to come with her,

“Show her how to cut the wood, not much muscle on her.” The man groaned in complaint but came to meet them halfway.

Eydis wasn’t very good. Though an oddly pleasant Faendal assure her she was better than Sven. Speaking of Sven, he appeared well after midday – hungover and sluggish he fought his way through his pile of logs. All the time, Eydis could feel both of the mens’ eyes on her. For more than enough of the day, Ralof guided her hands and arms until he deemed her cut to be slick enough to be done alone, only to immediately retract it. When a third pair of eyes joined.

“I see she’s found something to do,” Hadvar commented to Gerdur, watching as Ralof guided Eydis’s arms once more, the axe hitting the log hard. Pulling it back up and smacking it back down, the log split and shook the earth. She knew what she was doing, leading her like this wasn’t practice. Hadvar shook himself, just in time to hear Gerdur’s reply.

“She has, she’ll make a good living if Ralof will leave her be,” Gerdur shook her head, “he doesn’t trust her I don’t think. I suppose that’s your fault, I saw your little meeting at the gate.” Hadvar gritted his teeth, _his_ fault, he almost scoffed at the accusation. He was merely taking life as it came to him, Martolode could easily have gone with Ralof at Helgen, brought Eydis to them and not him.

“Perhaps,” Hadvar muttered, watching as Ralof finally moved away from Eydis, nodding to Hadvar and letting her go completely. Eydis glanced at him anxiously before coming up to meet them, smiling at Hadvar when she came closer. Gerdur stopped her.

“You’ll get half for today, so will Ralof, I’ll keep him at bay tomorrow.” Eydis nodded to her and thanked her, presented with a bag of gold, Gerdur then sent them on their way. Eydis had a spring in her step and went a little ahead of Hadvar, smiling at him whenever she turned before stopping outside of his house.

“When do you have to go?”

“Tomorrow.”

The spring went and Eydis’s shoulders dropped,

“That soon? I thought, just a little longer…”

“War waits for no one Eydis, didn’t you run all the way to Windhelm,” Hadvar smiled, “a good deed, if for the wrong side. Hjaalmarch camp is a few days travel and I have no horse, who knows where I will go after.” Hadvar’s hand moved towards her but he quickly retracted it, Eydis solving the predicament by putting her arms around his shoulders. She squeezed, leaving little impression – Hadvar was still able to put his arms around her. She then let go, her hand wrapping around his fingers and pulling him with her, towards the Sleeping Giant.

“It’s on me tonight.”

However, things quickly took a turn for the worst. They were barely on their second round, having been joined by Alvor and his family when the subject of Siddgeir was brought up. Dorthe, for all it was worth, was innocent in her question.

“Is it true, that you were married to Jarl Siddgeir?” She asked. Eydis spluttered, shaking her head.

“No, no, we were never married, not allowed to,” Eydis answered, smiling at her, “but we were like man and wife.”

“That’s not what everyone else called you,” Hadvar muttered, earning himself a glare from Alvor.

“Excuse me?” Eydis snapped, she had heard him loud and clear and her chair moved with her as she turned to look at her. He pretended he’d said nothing, burying himself in his drink and staring down into the end of his tankard. Sigrid took Dorthe’s hand and declared that it was time to go home, Alvor insisting he’d join them later.

“You heard me,” Hadvar grumbled once they’d gone.

“By Mara, I did indeed,” Eydis glared back at him, “Is that what you’ll call me, just like everyone else. Whore? Courtesan? _Endiskona?”_

“Well, people don’t think of you as much better as that,” Hadvar snapped back, “what happens when you don’t marry a man, they’d have gotten rid of you the second they had the chance.”

“Stop dressing it up as other people!” Eydis’s voice had raised to a shout, “you! You think that!”

“So what if I do, it doesn’t matter, next time you see me I’ll be old or dead,” Hadvar shrugged, his voice too raised, “I’m of no consequence to you.”

“Ha!” Eydis couldn’t believe what she was hearing, “do you know how many people who are ‘of no consequence’ make comments like that at me, oh I am so, so easy to spot. Perhaps I was the man’s whore but at least I have a little dignity about it, don’t mutter under my breath and think no one can hear me or chastise those who live as I did.” Eydis stood and tossed some coins on the table before marching out, turning heads.

“I think you should go and apologise to her, she liked you an awful lot,” Alvor shook his head, “why do you get like this boy?” He pulled Hadvar’s ear, “we didn’t raise you like that, your mother and father certainly wouldn’t have. Army’s turned you bad.” Hadvar didn’t answer, staying buried in his cup. Alvor stayed only for another moment, going to look for Eydis himself.

He found her outside, sat on the steps not far from a snoozing Embry. She looked up at him and then looked away, something like shame on her face. At first, nothing was said, the two simply listened to the night.

“He doesn’t mean what he said,” Alvor closed his eyes, listening to the faint buzz of the torchbugs, “it’s the drink and the army.” Eydis shrugged, her chin in her hands as she stared out over the river and into nothing. As far as she was concerned, Hadvar was right. She had been nothing but a courtesan, one who could sing well enough for the High King but a courtesan nevertheless. He could apologise all he wanted when the morning and the hang overcame, it wouldn’t change anything.

“You can stay with us for tonight,” Alvor added before making his way home, a glance back as Eydis stood.

Eydis pushed open the door to the Giant again, going to the woman who owned the inn. She, if hesitantly, told Eydis the room Hadvar had retreated to and watched Eydis carefully as she knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked again. The door was thrown open by an enraged Hadvar who remained for a moment, in that state of rage. Then, he calmed, unable to look her in the eye.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said, I’ll say more if I’m not careful,” he mumbled, aware of his drunkenness, “go, go somewhere else, Eydis.” Eydis stayed where she was. He tried to push her away, but she pushed back, her feet planted to the ground. The harder he tried the more futile it became and eventually he gave in, his head coming down to rest on her shoulder.  

Still, she pushed, moving him back until he landed on the bed, on top of all the furs and hay that brought little comfort to normal people but great comfort to a soldier who spent many nights on stone floors. She sank down, sitting beside him, a hand on his shoulder to hold him in place. He didn’t resist her, simply watched the silver-haired woman as his eyes began to close. Soon, sleep overtook him; something brushed against his forehead, but he was too tired to register what it was. With that, Eydis left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word Eydis uses here, Endiskona, is based on the Icelandic word for prostitute


	16. In Search of Solace II - Adanach

Adanach returned to his spot against the wall from the day before, leaning on it with his eyes closed. Waiting. He listened to Erla’s cheer but not her words; how she could be in a good mood after the fit one of the women had had when she announced her departure he couldn’t know. She had only hunted for a little in the early morning and returned with little game. A few were sad to see her go, others were distrustful and were more than glad to see the little wretch disappear.

After one who was between delight and distress at her leaving, a certain Addvar had bought the last of her produce, Erla bounced her way across the path and declared that she was done. Did he have the right girl? She seemed like little more than a small child, but she matched the description in every way. He’d seen her before anyway, he _knew_ who she was – even if she did not know him.

“That’s it, all of it’s gone,” she announced, “where to? What to?”

“Well, I have to show you how to carry things,” Adanach shook his head, “travel light, but not too light.” He placed a hand on the knapsack she carried and whispered, “perpetue” and it appeared to do nothing. Erla looked up at him and frowned, waiting for an explanation and being met only by his stone-like face. He lifted the top of the knapsack and pushed his hand down into it, further and further until his whole arm had disappeared into the bag. He looked up, “perpetue, never-ending.”

“Watch this,” he took an arrow from her quiver, holding it tightly in his hand, “nogravi.” He placed the arrow in her hand and what had once been lightweight now weighed nothing her hand. He couldn’t help but smile as she stared in wonderment at the little arrow that had become weightless in her hand, “now we can carry anything and everything.”

“No wonder Cyrods are so gifted with magic,” Erla muttered her remark, Adanach watching her face for something that might just give her away. Perhaps he had got the wrong woman, the one he’d been searching for had no reason to hate these people. Then again, 30 years was a long time even for Elves.

The first port of call for the two would be Dragonsbridge, half a days walk from Solitude, pleasant enough with enough wariness on the road. Erla was not yet lost, the road one well-travelled for her and often the source of meat and skins to sell. She led the way, traipsing lazily with Adanach following behind her. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all, it’d certainly make things easier for him.

“You know, I see a lot of Stormcloaks on this road,” Erla remarked, “sometimes they buy from me. They’re not so different from everyone else.”

“Do they not bring misery on the Dark Elves?” Adanach responded, “who were, unless I’m mistaken, once their allies.”

“They were allies almost 800 years ago, and it was a fraught alliance,” Erla shook her head, “and do the Aldmeri Dominion not do the same to their allies, the Khajiit?”

“I would not know,” Adanach responded, “Summerset is a distant memory, I have no work with the Dominion.”

“Is that so,” Erla mumbled, stopping and looking up the road. A deer had padded out onto the cobbles that had been lain by the Empire after the Oblivion Crisis. Adanach’s grandmother had recounted the events on Summerset too many times for him to count; but a child when they happened she had never forgotten the gates in the 200 years she had since lived, and she seemed to have more in her. The deer likely did not have family who remembered the crisis and it simply padded along without a care in the world. It had not noticed Erla, and Adanach had not noticed her disappear. 

The short, sharp whistle flying with an arrowhead caught the deer and before it could run away, put it out of any misery it might have been living in. The animal slumped on the road and Erla dropped down from a nearby tree, a little pride on her face. There were leaves tangled in the plaits she wore in raven hair and a frightening glint in her dulled amber eyes. Adanach wondered if she was supposed to be like this, or if something had happened that had turned her into a huntress. He dreaded to think what she might be like with men and mer.

Perhaps time would tell, Adanach lifted his head to see Justiciars. They had not seen him yet and he left Erla and the deer, darting off into the forest, casting all he could think of to cover his tracks. Erla turned and watched him go, about to call out to him when she turned and saw the Thalmor too. They had seen her. The male leading them quickened his pace, clearly towering over Erla even from afar, meeting her with the deer between them.

“Why, if it isn’t the Huntress,” he smiled, the two guards not far behind and diligent as always.

“Have we met?” Erla questioned, innocence on her face.

“You’ve sold to me and my guards before,” the Justiciar sighed, unimpressed by the lack of memory the wood elf had of him, “any goods for today?”

“Well, I’ve not got much left,” Erla bumbled, “there’s the deer.”

“Is that not your dinner?” Asked one of the guards, a woman, not much older than Erla it seemed and certainly no more than one hundred. Erla stuttered out some sounds, not much coming from it before she finally managed,

“I-I can’t eat a wh-whole deer!”

This conjured a laugh from the Justiciar as the other guard muttered about how he most certainly could eat an entire deer. Adanach continued to watch from as close as he dared to get, shrouded by magic and the trees and the guards seemingly less attentive. He wished none of them any harm unless they found and intended to harm him. He could never quite let go of that possibility.

“Are you not far from home here?” The female guard asked as the Justiciar and his other companion set to work on the deer – they would take some for a discount in return for gutting and skinning the animal. She looked around, vision somewhat cut by the wings on her helmet, adding, “we complain that it’s cold but you look like you are from the border between Valenwood and Elsweyr.”

“Ah, my looks betray,” Erla smiled, “I come from Elden Root, though I couldn’t tell you where my mother and father are from.”

“Pity, pity,” the guard sighed, leaning and whispering, “I’ll tell you a secret, I’m awfully jealous of you Bosmer, you seem to live very free lives.”

“It hinders and benefits us,” Erla shook her head, “our way of life is not easy to lead here.”

“Do you follow the Green Pact?” The woman asked, curious and avoiding watching the men gut the deer. Erla tipped her head side to side in response, making the woman all the more curious.

“It can be a difficult thing to do, you’ll find many Bosmer outside Valenwood struggle, especially in places like this,” Erla sighed, glancing off to the right where she knew Adanach was hidden, “but, we learn, I’ve been doing it for some years – it gets easier.”

“Would it be insensitive of me to say I’m glad I don’t have to follow such an obligation?” The woman asked, the men were almost done with the deer and the Justiciar was now counting out Septims.

“No, I’m sure there are rituals you must follow as an Altmer that I will be glad not to,” Erla smiled, “might I a-“

“Here,” the Justiciar interrupted, holding out a coin purse to Erla, “for the deer,” dropping the purse into her hand as the other guard took the cuts they wanted. It wasn’t well done but it was done enough and would serve well for what Erla needed. Adanach was still watching, waiting, hidden in amongst the trees and breathed a sigh of relief when it appeared the Justiciar and his guards would take their leave soon.

As soon as they were gone, Adanach allowed himself to drain and reappear amongst the shrubbery before returning to the road. His legs wobbled and threatened to give out for a moment, and he envied an old friend who had mastered magic and endurance before Adanach had learnt his first spell. Erla had begun to pack up the deer, or what was left it, and start walking. She knew how not to arise suspicion but he suspected that – if she was who he believed – she had been playing that game for longer even than he.

The rest of the journey was done in perpetual silence, both spending more time on the lookout for danger as the sun began to set. Nights were dangerous wherever you were, whether in the Imperial Capital or the backwaters of Black Marsh danger lurked everywhere you couldn’t see. It was only when a Khajiit tent and the looming bridge the town took its name from appearing that forced words from either elf.

“Dras’kay, trevan,” Erla smiled as they approached the Khajiit, “kizka ahzirr hadi jer ako? Ahzirr raba jeke.”

“Speak to us in Tamrielic, Drenamer,” one of them insisted, “you know our tongue, that is enough for now.” Adanach restrained a smile at Erla’s falling face and took out some Septims from one of the pockets of his knapsack.

“For the fire,” he insisted, “take it.” The Khajiit took the money, and then introduced himself as Ko’ari and brought his wife and son, Saidasha and Ko’sien, around the fire with them. Though many dangers lurked in the night, they would spend the night here. Khajiit, although many hated and despised the Dominion, always seemed to find solace in Altmer and Bosmer – kinder to them than other races. For what it was worth, everyone who sat around that fire was a foreigner in a foreign land whether it had held them for 30 years or 3 months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dras’kay, trevan, kizka ahzirr hadi jer ako? Ahzirr raba jeke - Greetings, friend, may we use your fire? We brought meat (based on the translation from this website https://www.taagra.com )


	17. The Age of Aggression XV - Sigrid

The ground shook and woke anyone who slumbered as the sun rose, some claiming they had almost been thrown from their beds. Sigrid knew those who would say such a thing and chose not to believe them, already awake and helping Alvor tend to his forge will diligent Dorthe watching. Eydis stood at the front of the house, nursing a mug of nettle tea while Hadvar filled his pack that would accompany him to Hjaalmarch. A company would meet him along the way, Sigrid could only pray nothing else found him first.

The shout distracted them all, aside from Eydis, who sipped her tea and hummed to herself,

“Call of the Greybeards,” she remarked, plainly, “we sing a song about it.”

“Does that not mean a…a Dragonborn?” Hadvar seemed to have lost his wits and ability to speak, looking up at the woman with astonishment on her face. A Dragonborn would surely be good news, especially after what he had seen. Eydis looked down at him.

“Yes, if we are lucky,” she muttered, shivering before she retreated inside. Sigrid frowned, had the girl been in Falkreath when the dragon attacked? No matter, she had a forge to light. Though she couldn’t help but notice the forlorn look on her nephew’s face, earning him a shake of the head and a sigh.

The girl disappeared off to work as soon as she saw the Wood Elf, joining him on the road and turning into her friendly self. Sigrid had to ask what exactly she put in that Nettle Tea. Constantly absent and unable to tell, Sigrid had never formed a real opinion on Martolode whereas Eydis, hardworking and happy as she was, had grown on the woman and become much welcomed in her household. She cooked and cleaned without needing to asked and sang all the way, Sigrid had never much liked bards until now – not that Sven was a good example of one.

Hadvar too had disappeared and Sigrid peered over her husband and through the smoke to see her nephew tapping his foot on the bridge. Eydis said something to the Bosmer before moving across the grass and towards Hadvar. They smiled and laughed, being perhaps more playful than they should, before Eydis planted a kiss on his cheek and held his face. Her eyes changed, lowering with worry as she stroked Hadvar’s cheek; Sigrid could only imagine her nephew’s face was not much different.

Then, they moved away from each other, Hadvar throwing his pack onto his back only for Eydis to come rescue him, straightening up the bag before it could drag Hadvar down into the water. They laughed and smiled again before she finally let him go. She held her hands to her chest, the bottom of her dress swaying a little with her as she watched him go. Sigrid smiled, how sweet.

“Well, I’m going,” Hadvar sighed, patting Dorthe’s head as she clung to his middle, smiling at his Aunt and Uncle. Alvor abandoned his work for a moment, wrapping his big arms around Hadvar and squashing Dorthe. Sigrid did not find herself needing to be persuaded, joining the embrace and resting her head against Hadvar’s.

“Stay safe, anything happens, turn back – they’ll understand,” she instructed, kissing his forehead. She took his hands as the hug ended, “gods guide you, nephew.”

Dorthe refused to let go until Alvor practically pried her off and they all watched as Hadvar began making his way down the path that would take him to Hjaalmarch’s camp. In Sigrid’s mind, all she could see was a younger Hadvar as he set off for Solitude itself, how he’d excitedly told them that he’d meet Ralof there. How he’d returned still hoping that he’d just missed him.

Now Ralof stood, watching his friend leave from the edge of his sister’s house, supposedly ailing with something and unable to work. Sigrid could only hope that the man felt guilt and sadness. He would never rescind his cause; the whole family had already shown that by the near fistfights that occurred between Hod and Alvor. Still, abandoning a friend like that, Sigrid dreaded to think of it.

Life went on for the day, once Hadvar had disappeared. Alvor returned to his work and Sigrid to hers, giving in on sending Dorthe on any errands the girl watched her father with diligence unparalleled. Whenever she would glance at the mill Eydis was working away, keeping conversation with Wood Elf and even Sven made an appearance. Whenever Sigrid would glance over, Eydis was there, speaking and working away.

“Tired?” Asked a voice.

“Ah! Sven, you make an appearance,” Eydis laughed, “you do surprise me.” Faendal said nothing and Eydis frowned at him. Usually, he would have said something to Sven quicker than she had but this time he remained silent and rhythmic in the chopping of logs. Eydis looked to Sven.

“Oh, he got some…you know,” Sven grinned, “gorgeous Altmer lady, didn’t look like the others I swear, towered over him.”

“I didn’t know Altmer women were so found of Bosmer,” Eydis remarked, “isn’t that illegal in most places?” There was a silence, both Sven and Eydis waiting for Faendal to say something but he merely looked at them and carried on with his work. Sven gulped. They were in for it later.

The morning passed without incident, Faendal still largely silent and Sven and Eydis humming together as they worked. Occasionally they would reminisce about their time at the Bard’s College, where Eydis had escaped to once she’d fallen out of the Stormcloak’s grasp. Sven,  on the other hand, had been advised to go by Mikeal, the bard in Whiterun who fancied himself a ladies man and whose book Eydis had insisted to Siddgeir be burnt should it enter Falkreath.

It was only when they sat down to eat, gathered on the bridge, that Faendal raised his voice.

“So, you and the soldier?” Eydis responded spectacularly. She spat out part of the apple she was eating, sending it flying into the stream below and hitting a rather angry Mudcrab which slinked up to them and tried to snap at their toes until Faendal shot it with an arrow. All the way Sven was howling at Eydis, whose pale skin had gone bright red.

“Hadvar? Really?” Sven continued to laugh, “the soldier? Why?”

“I don’t know what gave you that impression,” Eydis mumbled, shaking her head, “my heart’s still raw.”

“I watched you say goodbye to him yesterday,” Faendal reminded her, “Eydis Dragontamer your heart is not still raw. I might add that your Nord poetry is frightening.”

“I’m sorry, you were running through one about eating the dead yesterday,” Eydis retorted, Faendal shook his head at her and called her something in Bosmeri neither of them understood. Eydis simply huffed in response.

“He is a handsome man, Hadvar,” Sven shrugged, “I can see why.”

“Oh Sven, how sweet of you,” Eydis grumbled, “but please don’t accuse me of such things.”

“How is it an accusation?” Sven demanded, “we may do battle over it but Faendal and I are free in talking about our attractions, it’s no shame.” Eydis shook her head at them, choosing not to speak. She ate and then disappeared, saying only that she may overrun her break and asked they give Gerdur her apologies.

“Ink, quill, paper,” Lucan mumbled, placing them down on the counter in front of Eydis, “ten gold for the lot.” Eydis handed over the money and gave him a thank you before she left, taking them to the very edge of town, sitting down on a rock beside a tree stump. A bird twittered somewhere above her, a swoop of wings not revealing where it had gone. Eydis set to work.

“What’s the courier for?” Sven asked, Eydis returning with only a few minutes to spare before their break was over. Eydis shook her head at him, picking up an axe and getting back to work. She’d spent enough on that letter, she needed to earn it back. Sven rolled his eyes at her but followed her lead; Faendal had already resumed long ago. Whenever Sven tried to speak to her, Eydis would leave him hanging on the edge of his sentence until he fell. One last futile attempt to invite her for drinks was met with a timid “no thank you” and a walk in the opposite direction.

The day ended in Stew and bread, though an exhausted Eydis had barely finished her meal before she trundled her way downstairs and fell asleep. Dorthe was soon to follow and betrayed that Eydis was not asleep, their voices travelling up the ladder as Dorthe enquired more about the woman. Sigrid sat mending one of her dresses when Alvor declared that he was going for a drink at the Giant. It had been a long day.

It felt like hours that Sigrid sat there, stitching. The voices from downstairs faded, any noise in the street began to fade and Sigrid felt her eyes closing. It _had_ been a long day. Even in her state, she mustered the strength to mumble prayers to the gods that Hadvar was safe and well, that he had met his company and could protect himself.

“Hide everything,” snapped a voice, followed by the slam of a door. Sigrid was jolted awake to see Alvor standing wide-eyed and far too sober. She forced herself up onto her feet and, trying to keep her usual tone, demanded that he explain himself.

“There’s an Altmer woman, in the Giant,” Alvor snapped, “who knows what’s followed her!”

Alvor had woken Eydis, who appeared at the top of the ladder to enquire as to what was going on.

“An Altmer woman?” She asked, “don’t worry about her, she’s a rogue.”

“How would you know?” Alvor retorted, “have you spoken with her?”

“No, I haven’t,” Eydis shook her head, fighting a yawn, “she’s been here a few days, she’s just after bed and board.” Alvor frowned at Eydis, clearly far from trusting her.

“You’re no Talos worshipper,” Alvor declared, “you don’t know our fear.”

“Oh, I am and I do,” Eydis glared back, producing an amulet from under her dress, “you’ve heard Siddgeir doesn’t but the man can act, I’ll give him that, he’s as afraid as the rest of us. The Thalmor don’t bother with us, think they’ve got nothing to fear. Whenever they’d come knocking, I was hidden away altogether.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” Alvor shook his head, turning to Sigrid, “help me.” Sigrid stood, leaving her dress where it was and moving passed Eydis, down to the basement. She stopped briefly, reassuring the girl.

“We don’t live as you did,” she sighed, “I hate such suspicion but there’s no use risking ourselves on an assumption.” Eydis simply nodded.


End file.
